


Run and Hide And Seek

by catsplosion



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Awkward Sex, Comfort Sex, Depression, Drunk Sex, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, One Night Stands, Rejection, Survivor Guilt, Walk Of Shame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 46,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsplosion/pseuds/catsplosion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Fenris breaks her heart, Hawke stumbles into the comforting embrace of a fellow refugee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blot It Out

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing this for learning/growing purposes, so I welcome constructive criticism. I'd love to hear what you hate, what doesn't work, what you think could/should be better. Of course, if there's something you really liked, I'd love to hear that too.

Tonight, she was no different from any of the other patrons of the Hanged Man; just another sad sack drowning her sorrows in cheap ale. Looking for excuses not to go home to her recently emptied bed.

No, let’s not be melodramatic. “Recently emptied” gives the false impression that she’d shared it for more than a night. She sighed heavily into her drink. After almost three years of waiting and wishing and wanting, he had finally yielded to the fire that had slowly built between them, and for one night, the blaze consumed them.

Her throat tightened even as her cheeks flushed at the memory of his hands - gentle, nimble, strong - and his deep, throaty moans of pleasure. He had collapsed into her arms...but she’d awoken to find him trying to creep out like a thief.

That’s not fair. If he’d wanted to sneak away he almost certainly could have. Still, it was of little comfort to her that he chose to stay and reject her to her face. “This should never have happened in the first place,” he had said, the words an icy needle in her heart.

Hurt and anger gave way to shame as she recalled the events of the previous evening, and she decided another pint was in order. But before she got it back to her table, a man jostled her, and she sloshed ale across the front of her robes.

“Shit, sorry!” the man slurred. “So sorry!” He forced a grimy handkerchief into her palm.

“It’s fine,” she sighed, blotting wearily at the soiled navy fabric. “It’s not as if anyone’s looking,” she muttered to herself.

But the remark didn’t go unnoticed. “Well, that’s a shame, innit?”

She looked up at him, somewhere between surprise and disbelief. He gave her a crooked smile and cocked his eyebrow at her. She’d seen him in here before - a LOT - but never paid him much attention. Until now. He had the broad shoulders of a skilled swordsman and striking amber eyes under his unkempt mop of blond hair. Decent enough; maybe even handsome, if he tried.  She returned his grin. “Isn’t it just?”

 

He had all the clumsiness of a drunken one-night-stand, but he handled her with frustrating softness, his hands skimming her body through the thick fabric of her robes. She grabbed him by the shirt and plundered his mouth with her tongue.

“You won’t break me,” she whispered, though as she ran her hands down his chest it occurred to her that he probably could.

He laughed nervously. “I - ah -” She nipped at his neck, tasting sweat and stale smoke, and he shuddered. “I should warn you, though.”

“Warn me what?” she murmured, tugging his shirt off. Too many nights in the pub had started to soften him, but only just; she ran her hands over the solid planes of his chest appreciatively. “You’re not a demon, are you?”

“What? No, nothing like that!” He trailed a finger over the closures at the front of her robes. “I just...I’m a bit...rusty, you might say?”

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, working the closures open one by one until the garment slid from her shoulders. He reached for her, but she shoved him back against the door, his fingers barely grazing her hip. “Uh-uh,” she teased. “Let’s get you up to speed, shall we?”

“What are you talking about?” he groaned theatrically, his eyes glued to her as she slipped off her breast band and wriggled out of her smallclothes.

“Well, we haven’t really the time to practice,” she said, bending over the bed. “So I’ll just have to show you what I like.”

To his credit, he learned quickly. Unfortunately, he proved quick in other aspects as well, and before she knew it he’d collapsed beside her on the bed, spent. She sank back onto her heels. “Right, then,” she sighed.

“Oh, not so fast,” he said, sliding one hand up her thigh. “You wound me, Messere,” he chuckled as he laid her on her back. “To think I’d forsake a lady in her time of need!” He lowered his face between her legs, and if his willingness came as a surprise, it had nothing on his skill. Soon stars exploded across her eyelids and she cried out in ecstasy, her fingers curling into his hair. Gradually she returned to her senses and sat up, leaning back on her hands.

“That was…” she shook her head and brushed an errant curl back from her cheek.

“Mm, my thoughts exactly,” he chuckled in a low, sultry tone.

“So, you’re Fereldan?” she stood and stretched, collecting her clothes. “And not so rusty as you might think,” she added with a wink. To her amusement, she noticed that he’d furtively covered himself with the blanket.

“Oh, right. I’m sure lots of men in Kirkwall lack stamina.” Suddenly he looked stricken. “Not that - I don’t mean that you - when I said ‘lots of men’ I didn’t -”

Laughing, she bent down silenced him with a kiss. “Maybe you should save your mouth for that other thing,” she whispered teasingly, and slipped out the door.

And like magic, she slept soundly through the night.

  
  


 


	2. Lay it Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everything looks better by the light of day.

She’d gotten used to waking up with an aching head - that had pretty well become standard this last week - but the ache between her legs was new. Yawning, she rubbed her grainy eyes as last night’s...antics...came back to her in fuzzy flashes. She recalled a spilled drink...and that blond man. As she began to piece it all together, the dreaded knock sounded.

Groaning, she pulled a pillow over her face.

“It’s nearly noon, Gwenyth. You can’t keep sulking the day away.”

“Yes, Mother,” she muttered. Leandra kept talking, but Hawke wasn’t listening. She couldn’t decide which was worse - being treated like a child, or knowing that her mother didn’t have any idea how pathetic the situation had become. “Just - send Orana up for a bath, would you?”

She dragged herself out of bed, wrapping herself tightly in her dressing gown. A narrow sliver of sunlight snuck in through a gap in the drapes; she crossed the room and clapped the heavy brocade shut, restoring the room to the comforting dim.

She’d tried avoiding her room altogether, but her mother had found her early the following morning, curled up on a chaise in the library. The meager relief of escaping the specter of melancholy that had taken up residence in her bedchamber wasn’t worth the litany of questions, criticisms, and complaints that ensued. Her own bed, at least, afforded her a few extra hours’ sleep - and privacy. She thanked the Maker for the estate; any crying done in Gamlen’s shack would have quickly become common knowledge. And cry she had. For three nights straight.

On the fourth night, her misery had reached a fever pitch. Fueled by a bottle or so of wine, she’d stormed over to the mansion Fenris occupied, foolishly unarmed and not properly dressed. Miraculously, she’d managed to avoid the criminal element that plagued the city...although in retrospect, a mugging would have been a slightly more dignified end to that story.

She’d pounded relentlessly at his door, first demanding an audience, then pleading for one, then sobbing unintelligible curses until a guardsman came and politely dragged her back home. Thank the Maker for Aveline, who had her at the barracks often enough that she got on well with most of the guard. She didn’t doubt that she’d become the subject of at least a little gossip, but it could have been worse; they could have hauled her in for causing a disturbance, made her sober up on a lousy cot, and - worst of all - sent her home, hungover and unkempt, through the busy Hightown streets.

As Orana let herself in, Hawke considered if that gossip would have been worse than the stir she must have created in Lowtown. Surely someone had seen her scurrying upstairs with that bedraggled refugee; in fact, Varric probably already knew.

“Can I do anything else for you, mistress?” The dear girl had quickly learned not to point out how tired and bleary she looked these days; Hawke appreciated her perspicacity.

“Thank you, Orana, this is fine.” She heated the bathwater with the tips of her fingers and sank in with a weary sigh.

Better to face it sooner than later.

 

“Any hope of a late lunch?” she asked, standing in the doorway to his suite.

“Hawke,” he greeted her warmly. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”

She plunked down at the table, propping her chin on her hand. “Don’t be melodramatic. It’s barely been a week.”

“A week without your smiling face feels like a lifetime,” he said in a sing-song voice. “To be honest, I’ve been worried.”

She groaned and covered her face with both hands. “How much have you heard?”

“Only that you were escorted home a few nights ago, drunk...in your nightgown." He held up a reassuring hand. "And that came from Aveline, who assured me that the matter had been brought to her privately."

"For now." Her voice came muffled from behind her hands.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry. Between the two of you, there's enough respect to keep the guards quiet. And fear." She heard his footsteps behind her and felt a tentative, feather-light touch on her shoulder. “I’ll see if Nora can find you something that passes for food. When I get back, you can decide if you want to talk about it.”

Talk about it? She really didn’t. What good could come of that? She’d never been one to lay her feelings out on the table to be poked and prodded. Keep digging at a wound and it'll never heal.

Varrick returned with a steaming bowl of stew and a hunk of slightly stale bread. "I'm reasonably certain there's no rat in this," he said as he set it in front of her.

“I just feel so stupid,” she said quietly as Varric sat down across from her. “All my life I’ve known that -” she choked on the word that came to her lips, swallowed it, and tried another. “- that romance was not for me. The safety of my entire family depended upon our secrecy - our isolation.” Sighing, she dunked a bit of bread into the stew and shoved it into her mouth. “Of course, I have little left to protect now.” She swallowed. “I just thought...after everything we’ve been through…” She looked up at her friend, her forehead creased. “Are you going to say “I told you so’?”

“Please, Hawke. Give me some credit. I’d never kick a friend while she’s down.” He gave her a gentle smile. “Especially not one who could set me on fire with a snap of her fingers.”

Her attempt at smiling looked more like a grimace. “He was right. It never should have happened in the first place.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, okay? There’s plenty of lowlifes out there you could be beating up instead. And there’s coin in that!”

Maybe he was joking, but he also had the best idea she’d heard all week. “Do you have something lined up?”

“Aveline did have a little extortion racket she wanted us to look into, down by the docks. You interested?”

She began shoveling stew into her mouth, eager to get out and focus on something new. “You know it.”

As they headed out, Varric stopped to chat with someone at the bar. Hawke idly scanned the room...and caught a couple of drunks jeering at her from their table. Shit. “I’ll meet you outside,” she called to Varric as she ducked out the door. And so it began. At least her mother wasn’t privy to Lowtown gossip...unless Gamlen -

Mercifully, Varric appeared to interrupt her thoughts. “Everything okay?”

“Just...needed some air,” she gulped, forcing a smile.

You can’t bullshit a bullshitter - and his expression said as much - but to her relief, he let it go.

 

 


	3. Play the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't hide forever.

Their investigation around the docks pointed to a campsite out on the Wounded Coast, and that kind of adventure called for reinforcements. Conveniently enough, they’d already run into Isabela. The Rivaini loved hanging out around the docks, and made a killing playing Wicked Grace with young, landlocked sailors.

“Care to go hiking with us?” Hawke asked, propping one boot on the crate where Isabela sat. “We hear the coast is lovely this time of year.”

She sighed. “How can I refuse, when you ask so nicely?” The men groaned and protested her departure even as she swept their losses into her pouch. “Look on the bright side, boys. You probably have enough left for a pint ... if you share.”

Hawke just shook her head as the three of them walked away. “You’re going to wear out your welcome down here.”

“Unless the sailors run out of money first,” Varric said.

The pirate shrugged a bare shoulder. “Maybe I’ll take my game upcity, where the real money is.”

Kirkwall’s noblemen falling victim to Isabela’s bare, bronze skin and ruthlessness at cards? The thought brought a grin to her lips. “Speaking of Hightown, let’s see if Aveline’s free.”

Varric looked at her skeptically. “Hawke, if the captain wanted to get involved in this mess, she probably wouldn’t have asked us in the first place.”

“She asked us to get answers. She might be interested in the cleanup. Especially if she wants her brought in alive.”

 

Aveline barely glanced up from her mountain of paperwork. “Hawke, if I had time to chase down every reprobate who stirs up trouble around here, I wouldn’t need your help.”

“Of course. We’re only doing your dirty work - why would you feel obliged to get involved?” She stormed out of the guard captain’s office.

Isabela caught up to her first. “What’s got into you?”

“I just think she should at least help us fight her battles.” She shoved through the heavy doors of the Keep and into blinding sunlight.

“Since when do we need her? Let’s go get Fenris and -”

Hawke’s step faltered at the sound of his name. Isabela grabbed her arm.

“Andraste’s holy hole, did something finally happen?”

Varric showed up before she could respond. “So, what’s the plan?” They both watched her expectantly.

There was always someone looking to her for answers. She wondered if anyone understood how tiresome that could be. Shutting her eyes, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Go get Fenris,” she sighed. “We’ll be at Hubert’s stall - he had Bone Pit business he wanted to discuss.”

“Are you -”

“Just go, Varric!” she snapped. “Tell him we need his help. I don’t like our odds on the Coast without a bit of brute strength on our side." She gave Isabela a stern look and headed down the stairs.

"Well? Tell me what happened."

"No."

She made an indignant noise and swatted Hawke on the arm. "What do you mean, no?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine." She folded her arms across her ample chest. "And here I thought you liked Fenris."

“I do - did - “ She stopped short. “Maker, Isabela, no means no! I don’t want to talk about it, and I really don’t want you prattling on in front of him and making things worse. Is that clear?” The pirate’s wounded expression quickly cooled Hawke’s temper. “I’m sorry, Bela. I just…”

“It’s alright,” she assured her, linking her arm through hers. “I’ll get it out of you when you’re ready - or drunk.”

Her meeting with Hubert turned into an argument, as it often did.

“I think you overstep your bounds, Serah Hawke. Ours is an equal partnership, is it not?”

“Need I remind you that without me, you’d have no miners, and essentially no mine? I will speak with the men, find out how the coin could best be spent, and we will invest half of this windfall in our workforce.”

“Bah.” Hubert flapped his hands at her. “You coddle these men, serah, but I see there is no arguing with you. Do what you will.”

Varric appeared. “Doesn’t she always?”

Shoulders stiff, Hawke turned. Fenris stood a few paces behind, looking everywhere but at her. “Ah, good. You’re here. Thank you, Fenris, for joining us.”

His voice was strained. “You have more than earned my blade.”

“Yes. Great. Let’s go.”

 

The sun pounded them from above and the wind staged a cruel frontal assault, making the trek exceptionally grueling; at least it was quiet. On their way to the cove, Isabela had launched into her seemingly endless repertoire of sea shanties, Varric joining in on the ones he knew. But now, bloody and worn from battle, they lacked the energy even for that. Hawke took bitter comfort from Fenris’ slumped shoulders and downcast gaze.

They had known they’d find an elf with ties to Orlais, heavily guarded by mercenaries. They had not known, however, that the elf was a mage, which of course escalated the tension between herself and Fenris. She’d almost wanted him to say something to provoke her, but to what end? A shouting match wouldn’t accomplish anything … although it might relieve some of this contention. But he held his tongue, so she did the same.

By time they reached the city, the sun had retreated beyond the horizon.

“Fenris.” Was it her imagination, or did he flinch at the sound of his name on her lips? She held out the scrap of parchment she’d retrieved from the Orlesian elf’s body. “You should take this to Aveline.” It was a list of names - some familiar, some not, likely targets of the blackmail scheme. “Since you’re headed that way.”

Maybe he never intended to join them, or maybe he took the hint. “I...yes. Of course.” He took the parchment without so much as a glance at her face and slunk off towards Hightown.

Varric and Isabela exchanged glances but said nothing.

“What? You want to drink with him, go ahead. He’s got that stolen wine cellar, I’m sure he’d be happy to play host.” She headed for the Hanged Man, and after a moment they followed.

Dinner and drinks led to Wicked Grace and drinks, everyone pretended that Fenris' absence was nothing notable, and things felt almost normal. Except, of course, for the amber eyes watching her intently from the corner. And Hawke kept her gaze fixed intently anywhere but there.

Perhaps too intently.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to see through our cards,” Varric teased. "Wait - can you do that?"

"If she could, she wouldn't be losing," Isabela snorted.

"Maybe that's what I want you to think. Maybe I'm just waiting for the stakes to be high enough, and I’ll make you all look like fools." She stared at her hand, then dropped her cards onto the table. "Not tonight, though. I fold."

He frowned. "As do I."

The Rivaini squealed gleefully. She never tired of winning.

"And on that note, I'm afraid I have to resign." The dwarf drained his glass and stood. "I've got a guild thing in the morning, and they have an aversion to reasonable timing."

“Good luck with that.” Hawke turned to Isabela. “I’d appreciate it if you’d put off your plan to get me drunk and pry gossip out of me for another night,” she sighed.

“Actually…” she looked pointedly over Hawke’s shoulder. “I think I’ve got plans.”

She stretched and nonchalantly glanced behind her. A pretty young woman in a very short dress stood at the bar, undeniably looking in their direction. Grinning, she turned back to her friend. “So I see.”

“Unless…” She sighed. “I suppose it’s not nice of me to leave you -”

“Oh, don’t.” Hawke waved her hand dismissively. “I’m fine. I’ll finish my pint and head home. Maker knows I need an early night or two.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely. Happy hunting,” she added with a wink.

Hawke hadn’t even finished her pint before Isabela and her new friend were heading arm in arm out the door. She smiled ruefully into her glass. You’d never catch a woman like that crying over a lost lover. Well, unless you count ships… which Bela probably did.

The sudden appearance of a glass of whiskey interrupted her thoughts. “I already have a drink.” She didn’t need to look up to see how it had gotten there.

“But it’s almost gone.” To her dismay, the blond man sat down across from her.

“And if I wanted another, I’d get it myself,” she sighed. “Look, I don’t want this being a … thing. Okay?”

“I’m not - I mean, I don’t want …” Now it was his turn to sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, which had recently become acquainted with a comb. “I had a decent night’s sleep for the first time in years. I just thought that warranted a ‘thank you’.”

“That’s a little weird,” she said, raising her brow. “Just so you know.”

“I’m sure it is. I’m new to this.” He pinned her with his damnably brilliant eyes. “Maybe I need more practice.”

“Maybe you should try the Blooming Rose.”

He gave her a crooked smile that made heat well up under the collar of her robe. “There’s nothing there that I want.”

Hawke exhaled sharply. “Really, I -”

“Tell me you didn’t enjoy it,” he challenged.

She opened and closed her mouth a few times before she found words. “Did you really just ask me that?’

He shrugged, spreading his hands palms-up. “What’ve I got to lose?”

Suddenly parched, she grabbed the whiskey and downed it in two gulps. “Okay, yes. I did enjoy it.”

“Then why not enjoy it again?”

Pressing her lips between her teeth, she considered this carefully, and found herself lacking in answers. Avoiding his gaze, she rolled the empty glass between her palms, testing a series of weak excuses. She could feel his eyes on her, but he said nothing.

She sighed. “People would talk.”

“Oh? What people?” He looked around theatrically, then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Right - the drunks. Of course!” He fought back a smile, but his eyes crinkled up at the corners. “You’re absolutely right. I’d hate to ruin your reputation with the drunk community.”

Laughter burst from her lips like a bird startled out of a tree. She covered her mouth in a mix of shock and embarrassment, but that knot in the pit of her stomach had loosened a little. She looked intently at her hands for a long while before she raised her eyes to his face. He was handsome. And … skilled. “I don’t want this to get complicated,” she said firmly.

“No complications,” he promised and slowly, deliberately wet his lips.

“Andraste’s pyre,” she murmured, getting to her feet. “Go on, then.”

“Oh no,” he said, bowing. “Ladies first.”

She shot him a devilish look over her shoulder. “We’ll see about that.”

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Cut and Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her memories aren't the only things haunting Hawke.

“Spiders. It had to be spiders." A tiny flame sprung from the tip of Hawke’s finger, and she set a web alight, grimacing.

Anders chuckled, casting a beam of light into a crevice. “And here I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

She glared at him over her shoulder. “I’m not afraid. I just don’t like them.” Shuddering, she pointed to a crawl space between two boulders. “Too many legs. It’s unnatural.”

He moved to the other side of the hole and gave her a nod. She flooded the dark space with ice, which Anders shattered with a bolt of lightning. “I think that’s the last of them.”

“Thank the Maker,” she sighed, shaking the dust out of her robes. “Let’s get out of here.” She scooped up the drakestone he’d gathered and passed it to him. “You sure this is enough?”

He took the sack without meeting her eyes. “It’ll be fine. Thanks.”

She eyed him assiduously. His clothes hung off his gaunt frame, his complexion sallow; but what worried her most was the way he’d started avoiding her gaze. She'd tried to get some answers from him, but the conversation turned into a rant about the Circle and the Order so intense that it made her uneasy. Still, she hated that the silence between them had grown uncomfortable.

They were halfway down the coast before he spoke.

“Hawke, is everything alright?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I just...you’ve seemed a bit off lately, is all.”

One eyebrow shot up. “And you haven’t?”

“And I haven’t seen Fenris lately.”

There it was. “Why do you care? You two hate each other.”

“I care about you, Hawke. And it worries me that after following at your heel for years, your wild dog has finally bitten.”

She whirled to face him, her hazel eyes blazing. “Don’t.”

“I just -”

“Did you hear me? I know you can't be civil to one another, but could you at least leave me out of it?"

"How can you even ask me that? You're talking about a man who hates everything you are! Who would -"

"Anders, stop! Don't we have enough enemies? For all his talk, Fenris has always lent me his aid - even for the sake of mages. " She could see the flicker in his eyes, but he said nothing. “Just...save it for the templars, okay?”

“You’re right,” he mumbled.

She nudged him with her elbow. “Come on. I hate it when we fight.”

A small smile graced his tired face. “We never fight. I just ardently disapprove of some of your decisions.”

“Ah, yes - what are friends are for?”

 

She barely took two steps into the house before she triggered another trap.

“Tell me you’re staying for dinner, dear,” her mother pleaded. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in an age!”

Hawke held back a sigh. “Of course. Just let me clean up a bit, I’ve been at the Bone Pit all day.”

"I can tell," her mother replied, wrinkling her nose at her dirty robes.

What she really wanted was a bath, but the longer her mother waited, the more complaints she'd have. She settled for splashing her face and changing her clothes.

“It’s nice to see you looking like a lady for a change,” her mother greeted her, referring to the simple green dress she wore.

She sat down and gave a weary smile. "How have you been, mother?"

"Worried about you, more often than not. It's like living with a ghost lately."

Well, that didn't take long. "I'm sorry. Aveline needed my help with a case, and I've had mine business, and -"

Her mother held up a hand. "I’m not a fool, Gwenyth. I know where you've been."

Hawke paused, her fork hovering over her plate. "You do?"

"What do you take me for? That elf of yours slinks out of here late one night, and now night after night you slink in long after dark, reeking of ale and Maker knows what else. Did you think I’m oblivious to anything that happens outside this estate?"

Someday, she would find humor in this misunderstanding. But not today. She set her fork down, dismayed by the tremor in her hand. "This isn't a conversation I'm interested in having."

"Do you think that your interests are all that matter? Your actions reflect on this family."

"It's my actions that provide for this family!" she shouted, and her mother flinched. "I think I’ve earned a bit of free time."

"And that's how you spend it? Sneaking about with that tattooed elf?"

It took a concerted effort to unclench her jaw. "With whom I spend my time is none of your business."

Leandra's voice grew louder. "I’m thinking about your future, Gwenyth - and you should do the same!"

“Oh, but I am!“ She stood so abruptly that her chair overturned. "We talk about marriage all the time! He can move in here, and we'll give you dozens of half-breed grandchildren!" Throwing her napkin onto the table, she stormed out; her mother's shrill voice chased her to the door.

Anger carried her halfway through Hightown, the taste of her words foul in her mouth. Gradually, though, it subsided and shame set in; she shivered in the evening chill. She wanted a hot bath, a stiff drink, and sleep, but a mix of pride and shame kept her from returning home.

 

She felt incredibly conspicuous as she entered the Hanged Man, as if she wore an unconvincing costume. On the bright side, maybe no one would recognize her. Scanning the room, she saw none of her friends. Upstairs, she found Varric's door closed. That didn't mean anything; she could just knock...

Or not. She peered down the dimly-lit hallway, absentmindedly twisting the hem of her dress. She'd never just shown up at his room before; he might not appreciate it.

"Sod it," she muttered, and crossed the hall to his door, knocking before she could lose her nerve. The plan was to count to ten and then bolt, but by time she reached five she could hear footsteps, and by seven, the door opened.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked, mortified by the tremor in her voice.

He stood there in nothing but his trousers, and her mouth went dry as it occurred to her that he might have...company.

"I - it's you."

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. "Sorry. I was just..." Her cheeks grew hot.

He leaned against the doorframe and gave her a decidedly sexy grin. "Do you want to come in?"

"Maker, yes," she sighed, her shoulders softening. “Don’t suppose you’ve got something to drink?” His lantern glowed brighter than usual, and a book lay open on the bed. She turned to him sheepishly. “I’m sorry for barging in like this."

“No, I’m glad you came.” He grabbed the shirt that laid across the back of the chair in the corner. “I’ll get us something from the bar.” Crossing to where she stood, he interrupted her impending protest with a kiss so thorough that it left her breathless. “But if you insist, I’ll let you make it up to me.”

Hawke sat on the edge of the bed and freed her scarlet waves from the loose braid that held them. Slipping her shoes off, she tucked one leg under her and grabbed the open book. History, from what she could tell; maybe comparative religion - she found passages about the Qun as well as the Chantry. Deep reading, to be sure. She wondered, and not for the first time, just who this man really was.

The door scraped open and her companion appeared with a bottle of wine. He took one look at her and froze, his hand still on the open door.

She glanced guiltily at the open book. “I’m sorry,” she said, setting it down. “I was -”

“Don’t do that,” he said hoarsely. “With your hair.” He shut the door with enough force that the sound made her jump.

Confused, she ran her fingers through her locks. “Don’t…what?”

“Here.” Handing her the bottle of wine, he sat heavily beside her. She’d left the lacing lying on the bed; he grabbed it and tied her hair back loosely. “There,” he said with forced cheer. “Much better.”

Studying him carefully, she uncorked the wine and took a drink straight from the bottle. The crease between his brows contradicted his smile. She took a deep breath and took a calculated risk. “Did she die? In the Blight, perhaps?”

His gaze darkened and he looked away, but his hand still rested on her bare knee. “No...worse than that.”

She thought of Bethany’s broken, bleeding body, of the taint burning under Carver's flesh. "Worse than death?”

When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Betrayal.”

“I’m sorry.” She held out the bottle, and he took it.

“You don't need to be.”

“I showed up uninvited, and brought bad memories with me.”

“The bad memories were already here. I just...I don’t want to think of her. Especially not when I look at you.” The intensity of his gaze made her hand tremble as she reached for the bottle. He held it out of her grasp. “If you want any more,” he teased, “you’re going to have to work for it.

And work she did.

 

She collapsed onto his chest, panting, unable to tell which racing heartbeat belonged to whom. He tucked one arm under his head, his other hand lingering on her thigh. In these vulnerable moments, they treaded carefully.

“In retrospect,” she sighed, “this may not have been the best idea.”

“Is that a complaint?” he murmured, his chest rumbling beneath her.

“Just about the walk home.”

“You could put it off till morning.” She sat up abruptly, but he grabbed her arm before she could fully disentangle herself. “For the sake of practicality, is all. You’re hardly dressed for a Kirkwall night.”

Biting her lip, she scrutinized his face. “I don’t know…”

“It’s either that, or you let me walk you home.”

She scowled. “I don’t -”

“I know - you can take care of yourself. But I don’t think it’s safe for anyone to be alone at night here.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and grabbed the bottle of wine. “It is chilly out,” she mused, taking a drink and passing him the bottle.

“I promise to behave myself,” he said in mock solemnity.

She poked him in the ribs, making him twitch. “That’d be a first.”

He scooted over, making room for her to lie down, and she extinguished the lamp. In the dark, she could feel the warmth of his body just inches from her own.

“Thank you," she whispered.

He gently grazed her arm with the back of one hand. “Of course.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Waking Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke must start sorting out the various pieces of her life before they all jumble together.

Hawke awoke to gentle snoring and a heavy arm draped over her hip. She slid stealthily out of his bed and fumbled for her clothes; in the dark she dressed and tamed her hair. As she slipped her shoes on, she looked from the bed to the door and back. Sneaking out in the dark felt wrong, but she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea...

She almost laughed at that. A polite farewell hardly imparted a level of intimacy to carnal relations between a pair of nameless strangers. She leaned over the bed and nudged his shoulder. “Hey,” she whispered.

He shifted. “Hnnng?”

“I’ve got to run.” That seemed inadequate. “Thank you, again.”

He rolled over and cracked one eye. “Going home?” he yawned.

She nodded.

He smiled sleepily. “Mmm.” He pulled the blanket over his head and rolled over.

The hallway had better lighting, so she gave her dress a quick once-over and headed for the stairs - where she came face to face with the last person in the world she wanted to see.

“Hawke,” Fenris stuttered, looking her over closely. “What are you doing here?”

She crossed her arms to keep from smoothing her hair. “What business is that of yours?” He winced. Good.

“I, ah, I was just -”

“And what concern is that of mine?” Without waiting for an answer, she shoved past him, struggling not to look back. She thought she could feel his eyes on her back, and she lifted her chin defiantly.

She opened the tavern door to a faceful of dazzling mid-morning sun. Perfect - her mother would be awake by now, because she needed yet another awkward confrontation. Fenris might think she’d been with Varric, but he’d find out that she hadn’t, and then…

And then what? It was no business of anyone’s where she spent the night, and no one had a reason to care. Aside from Fenris, that is, and to the Void with him. She hoped he cared. She hoped it hurt, hoped he laid awake tonight imagining someone else’s hands on her body. Hoped…

Hoped what?

That he showed up at her door with flowers and an apology? That he begged her for another chance? That he could reach inside her chest and put her broken pieces back together?

A chirping voice saved her from her misery. “Hawke! You’re out early.”

She took a deep breath, forced a casual smile, and turned around. “As are you, Merrill. Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yes. Sometimes I go out to the docks to watch the sunrise over the water. It’s very peaceful, if you ignore all the shouting and swearing.  What about you? I’ve never seen you in a dress before! You look very pretty.”

Hawke blushed a little at the attention. “Thank you, Merrill. I just … decided to go for a walk. Try to enjoy the morning, for a change.”

“Well, that’s nice! You can come visit sometime, if you like. I’m always up early. Maybe we could go to the docks together?”

By now, her fake smile had been replaced by a more genuine one; Merrill had that effect on people. “I’d like that,” she replied, and she meant it.

“Well, I’ve got to go water my plants. Have a good day, Hawke.” And she skipped off in the direction of the alienage.

She marveled at the way the girl’s sunshine could break through even the darkest clouds. Forsaken by her people, alone in the shabbiest part of the city, she still found reasons to smile. Hawke really needed to visit the alienage more often.

 

She tried to enter the estate quietly, but Hugo had other ideas. The Mabari greeted her noisily, bounding back and forth out of her reach when she tried to grab him.

“Quiet!” she whispered loudly, her eyes darting to the stairs. “You’ll wake mother, you fool beast!” He threw himself onto his back and writhed around until she scratched his belly.

“Oh, no need to worry about that, Messere,” Bodahn spoke from the dining room doorway. “She’s gone to tea. You only just missed her, in fact.”

“What a pity.” It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. “Was she very cross?”

“Actually...your mother believes you came home late last night, and that you were still in bed when she left.”

Her shock overshadowed her gratitude. “Why, Bodahn, I didn’t -”

“I wasn’t telling tales, Messere! I just…I thought it would be impolite to argue with her. So I didn’t.”

“You’re a good man,” she said with a smile. “I’d better make myself presentable before she gets back.”

“Before you go up - there’s a letter on your desk. The woman who brought it said it was important.”

“That’s rarely a good sign,” she muttered. A frown creased her features as she read the letter.

“Would you like something to eat, mistress?”

She barely glanced up. “Just something quick, please, Orana. I can’t stay long.” Folding the letter, she tucked it into a pocket. "Bodahn, can you pay a visit to the clinic?"

"Of course, Messere. Should I -?"

"Have Anders meet me in the alienage in an hour. Tell him that Arianni needs our help."

 

Hawke stood in the doorway of the guard captain’s office. “I need you, Aveline.”

She kept her eyes on the piece of parchment in her hand. “Hello, Aveline. How have you been, Aveline? I’m sorry I got in a snit and stormed out of your office, Aveline.”

Folding her arms, she dug her toe into the carpet. “I am sorry.”

Setting the paper down, she fixed her with a stern gaze. “I’m concerned about you, Hawke. It’s -”

“You can lecture me all you want, but you have to do it on the way to the alienage.” She handed her the letter.

“Nightmares? I don’t...Hawke, what could we even do for him?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out - and I need you.”

“Are you sure? Because I will lecture you all the way to the alienage.”

She sighed. “I know. But I’ll feel better going into...whatever this is...with people I can count on.”

Aveline wrapped up her business in a hurry, and they set off.

"Now, do I need to address the importance of not creating another drunken debacle in Hightown?"

“No,” she said with a wry smile. “That’s a mistake I won’t be making again - and my thanks to your guardsman for not making my humiliation any more public than I did.”               

“So...what happened?”

The concern in Aveline’s eyes loosened her lips. “A mistake, apparently.”

“Are those your words, or his?”

She considered the distinction. “Both, I suppose. Had I known that’s how it would end, I wouldn’t have let it begin.”

“He’s sorry, you know.” She caught Hawke’s sharp glance. “He said as much, when he brought me that list of names.”

“He told you he was sorry?”

“He said…” She narrowed her eyes, scouring her memory. “He said ‘Her troubles are many, and I regret that I added to them.'"

Hawke frowned.

"What's wrong?"

Hawke sighed. "I don't want him to think that I resent helping him - or that I wouldn't help him again, if he needed it."

"Perhaps you need to have a talk with him, then."

"Yes," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose, "that's a splendid idea."

“Hawke, you can’t just wash your hands of this. You’ve both built new lives for yourselves here - and like it or not, those lives are connected.”

“You know, Aveline,” she grumbled, “you can be insufferably right sometimes.”

She grinned smugly. “I can’t leave all the glory to you, you know.”

 

When they arrived at the tavern, they found Varric - alone.

“Where’s Anders?”

Varric shrugged. “Beats me. Did we have a date I didn’t know about?”

“Maker’s piss,” Hawke muttered. “He was supposed to be here, I sent Bodahn after him.” She watched the door, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Where is he?”

"Shout if you see him," Aveline said as she went to talk to an off-duty guard.

"So," Varric began. "Sleep well last night?"

"Well enough," she said stiffly, her eyes on the door.

"Really? I’ve heard the beds in the boarding rooms are -"

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his sardonic expression. Her shoulders sank. “Did you tell Fenris?”

“I told him you were fine, and it wasn’t my place to tell him your business.”

“So...does he know, or not?”

“I didn’t disavow him of the notion that I saw you this morning.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Were you really wearing a dress? I didn’t realize this thing had gotten so serious.”

“It’s not serious - and itt’s hardly even a thing! I...it’s a long story. I only stayed the night because it was late and I didn’t want to walk home.”

He shrugged. “You’re a grown woman, Hawke. Where you spend your nights is up to you.”

Looking up, she saw Aveline returning to them with Anders in tow. “I haven’t heard the last of this, have I?”

Varric grinned. “Not even close.”

Their friends joined them. “What’s happened to Arianni?” Anders asked.

Hawke shook her head. “Not her, Feynriel. His nightmares are back.”

“Nightmares? What does that mean for us?”

“Let’s go find out.”

  
  
  



	6. Treading Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's life begins to even out - and not always in ways she appreciates.

"This is ridiculous," Hawke muttered, staring at the door. She shifted from one foot to the other. She glanced behind her, where Kirkwall nobility passed by, oblivious to her struggle. She raised a hand to knock, then smoothed her hair instead. She adjusted her robes. She examined the toes of her boots. She took a deep breath and lifted her hand again.

The door opened, startling her. "Hawke?” Fenris asked, his green eyes wide. “What are you doing?"

Faffing about on your doorstep like a crazy person, she thought. "I came to see you.” She fidgeted with the cuff of her robes. “I, uh, I have a job, If you want it.” She passed him the scrap of paper. “Later tonight, of course.”

“More bandits at the docks. Shocking.” He sort of looked up at her, but his eyes never reached her face. “If you need my help, I -”

“I don’t. I mean, it’s…” Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “I didn’t come to you out of desperation. I came because it’s paying work and you’re -” she swallowed hard; “- I thought you might want to come. That’s all.”

“Oh. I...yes. Thank you.”

“Good. Hanged Man, half past dark?”

“I’ll...see you then.”

She forced a smile and left without saying goodbye. Really, though, it could have been worse.

 

She found Isabela ogling sailors - or ships...or both - down at the docks. “How about I buy you a pint?” she offered.

She rested her hand on one cocked hip. “You never offer outright - what’s the catch?”

Hawke chuckled. “I’m going to ask you for a favor or two. I figure my odds are better if you’ve got a bit of ale in you first.”

“I’ll let you buy me a drink, but I’m not promising anything.”

“Fair enough,” she said, slinging her arm around Bela’s shoulders.

 

“What kind of party is this?”

“It’s only a party now that you’re here, Varric,” Hawke smiled at him. “Up for bandit hunting tonight?”

“Sure,” he said as he joined her and Isabela at the table. “Bianca could use a nice, normal night out.”

“Did you really go to the Fade?” Isabela asked.

“Strangely enough, we did. And it’s not a place I’d care to visit again.” He turned to Hawke. “Is Aveline joining us, or are you still pissed?”

Hawke said “I’m not pissed,” at the same time that Isabela said “She invited Fenris.”

Varric looked back and forth between them. “I’m not even sure where to start.”

“I’m not pissed,” Hawke repeated. “I’m...disappointed. Frustrated. And hoping she’ll come to her senses.” She frowned. “If she doesn’t, then I’ll be pissed.”

Isabela pouted. “I really missed some excitement, didn’t I?”

“Aveline betrayed us in the Fade,” Varric explained. “A demon convinced her to turn on us.”

She sat up abruptly, her boots thudding on the floor. “That sounds serious.”

“It’s not, really. We defeated her, she woke up. And that’s not the issue here. Now she’s using her weakness as an excuse to justify oppression.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Aveline I know,” Varric said doubtfully.

“She said that now she’s seen the temptation that mages face, she’s...’less opposed to the Gallows,’ as she put it.” She scowled. “I hope she’s just saying it to make herself feel better.”

“Not that she’s pissed,” Varric said to Isabela, who smirked. “So, Fenris is joining us? Voluntarily?”

Hawke shrugged. “I can’t shut him out forever. How would he find work without my help?” Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. “Besides, you’re all his friends as well. As much as I might think I want him to be miserable and alone, I’m not so cruel as that.”  

“Then everything’s good between you two?”

“I...wouldn’t go that far.”

“I promised not to make things worse,” Isabela chimed in.

“In that case, I’m sure everything will be great.”

Hawke covered her face, stifling a groan, and wondered if it was too early to get drunk.

 

When they had rooted out the last of the bandits, Hawke invited Fenris back to the tavern; she couldn’t decide who looked the most shocked. The evening was predictably awkward, but not intolerable.

As Hawke carried four pints of ale to their table, she caught a glimpse of her blond companion in the corner; but as soon as he saw her, he looked away. Frowning, she took her place on the bench. “That’s the last round on me,” she informed her friends. “I’m going broke tonight.”

“I think I’m almost done for the night, anyway.” Fenris had started out quiet, his eyes on his drink or his cards, but he seemed a bit more relaxed as the night went on. “I...thank you. For tonight.”

“Anytime,” Hawke offered. “Really.” She wondered if he wanted to leave before she did to avoid an awkward walk back to Hightown. Just as well, because she had no intention of hurrying home. Her companion had long since vanished upstairs, and she was eager to join him.

As she climbed the stairs, however, she recalled the way he’d avoided her gaze earlier. What if he wasn’t waiting for her? What if he didn’t want to see her? He wouldn’t always, she reminded herself. Still, what harm could there be in trying?

As she knocked on the door, she heard his voice speaking Fenris’ words, telling her it never should have happened. A stone dropped into the pit of her stomach and she wanted to run, but it was too late; she could hear his footsteps.

When he opened the door, he didn’t smile. “What are you doing here?”

Her throat felt like she swallowed sand. “Making a mistake, I see,” she croaked, turning to go. He called after her to stop, but she ignored him, her cheeks burning.

“Messere Hawke!”

She froze. Her deep-set eyes narrowing, she turned back to him. “Did you just -”

“Will you please come back?” He stood in the hall, barefoot, disheveled, looking embarrassed.

“How did you know my name?”

He gave her a shrug and a half-smile. "Really? Everyone knows who you are, Gwenyth Hawke. Even the drunken lowlifes."

She bit her lip, feeling suddenly stupid.

"Come back, won't you? Even if just for a minute."

Sighing, she followed him apprehensively to his room. "You've known who I am this whole time?" she said as soon as he shut the door.

"Does that really surprise you?" He sat on the bed, watching her pace. "You've made quite a name for yourself here."

"But you never said anything." She could hear the accusation in her tone - though she knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. Without the cloak of anonymity, she felt exposed.

He chose his words carefully. "I know it's a lot of pressure, being...well-known. I thought you liked getting away from all that."

His insight surprised her, and she relaxed a little. She never realized what a relief it was, the time she spent with him, when the only answers he looked to her for were yes and please and more. She crossed her arms. “Why didn’t you want me to come tonight?”

"I didn't expect you. There's a difference." He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. "It’s just, now that your friend with the tattoos is back, I thought..." He shrugged, not meeting her eyes.

She bit her lip. "He's not 'back' in that sense, if that's what you're thinking." She felt out of her depth. “And even if he was…”

"Look, I know it's none of my business. I'd just rather not try my odds against an angry elf with an enormous sword, so if you're using me to make him jealous -"

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “I’m not. I’m really not.” She sat on the edge of the chair near the bed, her folded hands between her knees. “I’m…I don’t think about him when I’m with - when I’m here.” Her eyes wandered the room. She felt more comfortable in this dingy boarding room than she did in her own estate. “I don’t think about anything, really. It’s wonderful.” She forced herself to meet his watchful gaze. “I didn’t realize it before, but you’re right. This is an escape for me.”

He smiled disarmingly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Happy to be of service, Messere,” he said with a bow.

“What do you get out of this?” she asked impulsively.

It was his turn to look away. “I don’t think about anything either, when you’re here. Actually, I...” He shook his head, so slightly that she almost missed it - almost.

“You what?”

“I...enjoy your company.” He gave her one his those toe-curling looks. “What man doesn’t enjoy the company of a beautiful woman?” He knelt at her feet and slid his hands up her legs.

The tension melted from her muscles at this return to more familiar territory. “Even when I barge in uninvited?” She leaned back in the chair and let him ease her legs apart.

“You’re always invited, Messere,” he murmured, slipping off her boots. “Though it might be nice if you brought the wine for a change.” Winking at her, he pushed up her robe until it bunched at her hips.

“Fair enough,” she sighed as his lips brushed the inside of her knee. Shutting her eyes, she curled her fingers into his hair and lost herself.

 


	7. Let It Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke unburdens herself.

“You’re not going to start calling me Hawke, are you?” she asked, pulling on her boots.

“Perish the thought! When you’re here, you’re just that sexy redhead with the tired eyes.”

“That’s not - ” She turned to glare at him but found herself distracted by his nearly naked form; an appreciative smile graced her lips.

“Not what?” He stretched languidly, pooling the sheet between his legs.

“Don’t tease me,” she growled, reaching to draw the sheet the rest of the way across his body.

He caught her arm, unbalancing her, and she tumbled onto the bed with an undignified squeal. “It’s not a tease if you let me make good on it,” he whispered, his lips against her ear, making her shiver.

“Feeling ambitious, are we?” she laughed, but he grabbed her hips, pulling her body against his, and she realized he wasn’t bluffing. “Maker’s mercy, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Well, not if you don’t want to, of course.” He pressed his thigh firmly between her legs, eliciting a gasp. “But I think you do.” The low, growling tone of his voice thrilled her almost as much as his touch.

“Since when do  -”

He interrupted her with his mouth on hers. “I know I made a terrible first impression,” he murmured, trailing kisses along her jaw. “But I told you I was rusty.”

Her faculties were rapidly forsaking her, so she gave up protesting. “You’re going to wear me out, you know.”

 

Hawke snuck into the estate in her wrinkled robe, fearing the worst. As she eased the door shut, she heard a snort from behind her. Hugo glared at her from the doorway.

“You won’t rat me out, will you, boy?” she whispered. The hound sidestepped and gestured toward the stairs with his head. She rewarded his loyalty with a scratch behind the ears as she crept by. All was dark and quiet, to her relief. She scribbled a note to Bodahn, instructing him to have Orana wake her for breakfast.

In her room, she undressed and slipped into bed, wondering if she’d have time to doze at all before her mother woke. Her body ached in the most wonderful ways; he had really been holding out on her lately. She couldn’t help but think, though, that tonight’s encore had been a ploy to make her stay the night.

A small smile played across her lips as she drifted off.

 

“Mistress?” Orana hovered at the edge of the bed, one hand extended as if trying to work up the nerve to touch her.

Hawke yawned. “Already?”

“Breakfast is almost ready. Your mama is already in the dining room.”

Stretching, she sat up and reached for the dressing gown that hung by the bed. She tried to run her fingers through her hair, but her tangled tresses required more work than she was willing to do at the moment. She cinched her gown closed and headed downstairs.

"You're up early," her mother said, brows raised.

"I thought it might be nice to have breakfast together," she said cautiously, stifling a yawn.

"You look exhausted."

Her shoulders stiffened. "I work very hard."

"I know, dear," her mother sighed. "And I worry about you very much."

"I'm being careful."

Orana served breakfast and Hawke relished the moment of quiet.

"Where do you go all day? Surely not always the mine."

"I..." An idea came to her. "I spend a lot of time with refugees." She hid a grin behind her glass.

Her mother's nose wrinkled. "Doing what?"

"Helping them find work, things like that. I like that I can use my status to benefit others. In fact," she continued before her mother could speak, "we've just hired a few more men to work the mines. There's hope for the lot of us yet."

"I wish you wouldn't lump us in with the derelict refugees down in the Undercity," her mother grumbled.

"Just because we've been luckier than most doesn't mean we should forget where we came from,” she scowled. “I think you forget that we’re not that long out of Lowtown.”

“We could all forget that, if you’d start acting like an Amell.”

“And here I thought I was still a Hawke,” she said coldly.

Her mother stood abruptly, knocking over her glass. “Honestly, Gwenyth, can’t you last ten minutes pretending to be civil?” She stormed out of the dining room, and moments later Hawke heard the bedroom door slam.

She sat quietly for a moment, finished the toast that her mother had left behind, and retreated to her room. Something had to give between the two of them, she knew. She just didn't think the onus to resolve their tension fell to her, after everything she'd done for the family...or what was left of it.

She was trying to force a comb through her disheveled hair when Orana knocked.

"Can I do anything, mistress?"

She paused, her fingers still entwined in her mane. "Actually, you can."

 

Her mother found her in the library, reading about the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden.

"What in Andraste's name have you done!" Her mother's shriek took her by surprise; she dropped her book.

"Calm down, Mother," she chided.

"Calm down? Are you out of your mind? I know you're incapable of acting like a lady, but now you can't even look like one?"

"It's just hair, Mother," she said incredulously, "and I've worn it like this before." Her hands shook and the back of her throat tightened. She wanted to run away, before -

"It’s been years. I thought you finally grew up!"

"I lost Bethany!" she choked out, and the tears came.

"Gwenyth?" her mother said hesitantly.

"Bethany cut my hair. Before. And then I lost her, and I just..." Her shoulders shook with the force of her grief, and she slumped back in the chair, drawing her knees to her chest. Her mother sat on the arm of the chair, resting her hand on Hawke's shoulder.

"I never knew," she said softly.

Hawke smiled through her tears. "When you didn't approve, I figured there was no point in making you angry with both of us."

"I didn’t think your sister was capable of keeping secrets from me."

She shook her head and leaned into her mother's embrace, putting an arm around her waist. "She managed one." She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. "She should be here, not me."

"Don't you dare say that!” her mother scolded, shaking her. “Don't ever think that losing you would have been any easier than losing the twins!"

"Bethany was better suited for this life. Ladies' teas, Spring salons, a line of suitors stretching out the door." She pictured her sister in an elegant gown, sipping champagne at a Hightown party. Her heart ached.

Her mother stroked her short curls. "Are you really so miserable here?"

"Only when you're trying to make me something I'm not."

"Gwenyth." Her mother took hold of her shoulders and looked her in the eye. "All I want for you - all I've ever wanted - is a good life, where you'll be cared for and looked after and safe from harm."

"And what about what I want?"

"Is he really what you want?”

She sat upright. “Wait. You mean Fenris?”

“Aren’t you and he…?”

Cringing, she shook her head. “I...no. He’s...a friend. That’s all.”

Her mother gave her a skeptical look, but didn’t belabor the point. “Then what is it that you want?”

“Well I know what I don’t want, and that’s a life of ladies’ teas and Spring salons.” Getting to her feet, she planted a kiss on her mother’s head. “And why are you so set on me marrying a nobleman? You didn’t.”

“Darling, I loved your father very much...but the life we had is not the one I’d wish for you.”

“I am what I am, Mother. Unless things change - a lot - that’s the best life a mage can hope for.” She thought of Anders. “And I’m luckier than most, believe me.”

 

When she entered the Hanged Man that night, she found Fenris and Merrill playing cards with Varric and Isabela. Merrill saw her first, and to Hawke’s horror she let out a piercing squeal and charged at her like a wiry little deep stalker.

"Hawke!” Merrill flitted around her, gently stroking her hair where it curled around her face. “Oh, it's so pretty! You look like a flower!"

“I...thank you, Merrill,” she said, trying to dodge the gentle assault. She joined the others at the table, all too aware of the scrutiny she faced. "Could everyone stop staring? I feel like I might catch fire."

"I like it," Isabela said. "Makes you look a bit wild."

"You do know how to turn heads," Varric acknowledged.

"Fenris," Merrill chirped, and Hawke cringed. "Doesn't Hawke look pretty?"

"Yes," he mumbled without looking up from his drink. "It is...very fine."

"Thank you, everyone." She inhaled deeply. "So, have I missed anything?"

"Isabela is winning," Fenris muttered. "Try not to faint."

“I think I’m just a spectator tonight,” she chuckled, heading for the bar. She scanned the room with feigned disinterest and spotted her companion playing cards in the corner. One of the men with him looked like one of her miners, but she couldn’t recall his name. Her blond man glanced up and she caught his eye; he almost knocked over his glass. She smiled and turned to Corff.

As she waited for her pint, he appeared beside her, leaning casually against the bar. “I just have to say, wow,” he said, not looking at her. The heat radiated between them, quickening her pulse.

“Really?” she murmured, pretending to examine the graffiti carved into the bar. “I’ll have you saying more than that before the night’s through.”

“I could be okay with that.” He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in close. “I think your friends are staring,” he whispered. “I’ll see you later.”

She got her pint and sure enough, turned to find her friends watching her.

“Who was that?” Merrill asked as she sat down.

“Who?”

“I think she means the man at the bar.”

Hawke shot Varric a threatening look. “Oh, no one. A refugee, I suppose.”

“You two looked thick as thieves, if I didn’t know better,” Isabela said.

She swallowed. “He told me a joke. A...Ferelden joke. Wasn’t even funny. Is someone dealing the cards, or not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in a bit of a time crunch. Tuesday is the start of Camp NaNoWriMo, and I want to spend it finishing the novel I started in November. I'm going to try to write far enough ahead that I can keep posting new chapters here once a week, but I may have to slow down a little. Sorry :(


	8. Falling Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels like a nightmare, but it's all too real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if the next few chapters feel a little rough. I wrote 8-11 in the span of a few days. 
> 
> I want to thank all of you for reading. The thought of someone checking for an update today was what dragged me out of bed this morning.

When the sleep spell wore off, she found Anders asleep in a nearby armchair. With a flick of her wrist, the chair shattered, sending him scrambling to his feet. He stared at her with wide eyes. "Hawke -"

She shot a spike of ice at the floor beside his foot, and he jumped. "You started it."

"I was just trying to help, Hawke."

"Help?" she snapped, advancing on him. "Magic doesn't help people, Anders."

"You know that's not -"

"Shut up!" she shrieked. "You didn't help her! You couldn't help her! So what good is it? What good is magic when I'm still watching everyone I love die?!" She stood two steps away from him, hands clenched into fists, her whole body quivering. He reached for her and she smacked his hand away. "Don't. Don't you sodding touch me. Not again."

"Hawke, please."

“Please what, Anders?” If he tells me to calm down, she thought, Maker help me I'll -

He took a shaky breath. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Her anger crumbled at his words, leaving her weak. She looked down at her hands, where her fingernails had cut tiny half-moons across her palms. She looked up at the splintered remains of the chair, the mark on the carpet left by the ice bolt. Her eyes filled with tears. “Anders... I’m so...”

“I know, it’s alright.” He took a tentative step toward her, reaching, and this time she let him put his arm around her. He led her back to the bed and sat her down while she soaked his shirt with tears.

"Don't make me sleep again," she sobbed, unable to articulate the agony she endured when the spell subsided and her grief crashed down upon her once again. Anders spoke, but she couldn't make out the words over her own raw keening. He held her tightly, his elegant hands stroking her arm, her shoulder, her back; his voice washing over her like a cool rain, and when she felt herself sinking, she didn’t fight it.

 

Gradually, Hawke identified the weight pressing down on her as layers of quilts, and the droning buzz as voices. She listened as the buzz coalesced into words.

"You need to get some rest, Blondie. You look like the wrong end of a nug."

"I'm fine. Really."

"He’s right, Anders," Hawke mumbled, her words lost in the pile of blankets. Her friends had to help extricate her. “You should go,” she insisted as soon as she broke free. “I appreciate it, but...” She shrugged and tried for a smile. It didn’t work.

He leaned over and squeezed her shoulder. "If you need me, I'll be at the clinic."

"Thank you," she said, touching his hand.

He gave Varric a meaningful look on his way out.

“If you’re thinking about kicking me out too, you can forget it.”

She sighed. “Suit yourself.”

“Can I convince you to have breakfast with me?”

She rolled her eyes. “Varric, I think you could convince the Circle to free the mages, if you tried.”

“I think I should work my way up to that.”

“Give me a minute to change. Ask Orana to fix us something?”

“See you downstairs.”

She dragged herself out of the nest of blankets, surprised to find that she was dressed, but not…

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t remember changing her robes. These were soiled with sweat, and as she discarded them in favor of her dressing gown, she wondered if it had been Anders who’d dressed her. Looking around her bedroom, she saw no sign of her deep green robes, the ones that would still reek of foul magic and unnatural death. Hot, stinging tears filled her eyes again and she slammed her fist into the bedpost. It hurt bad enough that she cried out, but the pain centered her somehow. She took several deep, shaking breaths and wiped her eyes, then headed downstairs to meet Varric.

“Messere Hawke,” Bodahn greeted her. “It... it’s good to see you again.”

She forced a smile. “Varric?”

“Already in the dining room, Messere.”

Standing in the doorway, she stared, realizing that her mother would never again sit at the head of the table, never scold her for being late - or absent, never… Something twisted inside her and she squeezed her eyes shut.

A soft touch at her elbow startled her.

"You okay?" Varric asked.

"Let's... eat in the garden, shall we?"

They sat on a stone bench and ate with their plates balanced on their laps.

"Fenris came by last night. Blondie told him he could stay, but..."

"Probably just as well. The last thing I need is a fight on my hands."

"What do you need, Hawke?"

She stared across the courtyard, watching the shadows of the trees dancing across the flagstone. "Rope," she said finally.

"Hawke... "

She chuckled, the sound hard and bitter. "When we lived in Lothering, my father made a hammock. My mother hated it." She shrugged. "I need something to do, anyhow." She caught a glimpse of his dubious expression. "I don't need a nursemaid, Varric!" she said sharply. "What do you intend to do, follow me around like a dog? Because I have a dog, thank you." She swallowed hard and turned away.

"I'll go," Varric said without a trace of unkindness. "I'll even send Bodahn to the market for you. But I can't promise not to check up on you."

She pressed her lips between her teeth to stop them quivering and listened to his footsteps recede. When the door closed behind him she eased herself to the ground and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on her knees.

From the corner of her eye she spotted an ant trundling by, hauling a crumb. Hawke watched his slow passage with detached interest. She admired his dedication; his pace never slowed, his steps never faltered, he just pressed on.

 

"Messere?"

She turned to see Bodahn just outside the door. He had a coil of rope slung over his shoulder and a sheathed dagger in one hand. They stared at each other in silence.

Finally, Hawke got to her feet and went to collect her supplies. He readily handed over the rope, but when she reached for the dagger he took a half-step back.

"Bodahn." She'd meant to sound gentle and reassuring, but even to her own ears she sounded harsh, angry. She cleared her throat. "You needn't worry. I don't intend to do myself any harm."

He glanced away guiltily and held out the knife. "Of course, messere. My apologies. I just -"

"Not at all. I do appreciate the concern." She walked away before he could speak further. When she finally looked back, he had retreated into the house. In the time it took her to anchor the rope to the trunk of the thickest tree, she concluded that the loose sleeves of her dressing gown would be a hindrance. She stripped it off and roughly sheared the sleeves off with her dagger. As the day wore on and the sun beat down, she’d end up twisting one of the sleeves into a rope to hold back her hair.

Orana appeared with a tray; Hawke ignored her until she left. There was a pitcher of water and a glass, a hunk of bread, a dab of jam on a plate. She drank straight from the pitcher. As long as she emptied it before Orana came back, the girl never spoke, not even when ants overran the bread and jam; she just took away the tray and left a fresh pitcher.

As daylight failed, she worked faster, and by the time the sun had begun to really set, the hammock was finished. She flung herself into it, exhausted, aching, hands covered in blisters, sunburned arms and neck stinging. Voices from her past echoed as if from a great distance - the twins as children, chasing each other around the yard; her mother complaining; her father lovingly placating her… 

 

 

 

 


	9. Down and Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is sick with grief.

Hawke bolted upright and found herself spilling onto the flagstone. She hit with a guttural cry as pain exploded at several points on her body.  
“Oh mistress, I’m so sorry!” Orana dropped to her knees beside her. “Let me help you.”  
She sat up, rubbing the side of her head where she had thwacked it on the ground. “I’m not - what happened?” she said hoarsely.  
“It’s my fault, mistress. I woke you, startled you. I didn’t mean to!”  
“Of course not. It’s alright, Orana.” She’d also bashed her elbow quite severely; the tentative brush of her fingertips was enough to make her wince. “Was there something you needed?” As she stared at the hammock, she slowly remembered why she’d been in the garden.  
“You have a visitor.”  
She groaned. “Who?”  
Orana tugged at her apron. “Fenris?”  
She covered her face with dirty hands. “Andraste’s smallclothes. Uh...have him wait in the library. I can’t -” she gestured vaguely at herself, sure that it went without saying.  
“Of course, mistress.”  
She waited at the door, stretching her stiff and aching neck. When she thought the coast was probably clear, she rushed up to her room. Orana was already there, filling the washbasin. Hawke gingerly mopped away the dirt and dried sweat, her shoulders screaming in protest. She knew without looking that her hair was a mess, so she tied a scarf over it and called it good. When she turned, Orana stood waiting with a dress in her hands. Ordinarily she dressed herself, but the pain in her arms convinced her to accept the help. The silk was blessedly cool against her sunburned skin.  
She entered the library quietly, and found Fenris pacing.  
“Fenris,” she said stiffly. She spied two glasses of water on the side table and seized one gratefully.  
“I… I don’t know what I can say… but I am here.”  
She turned to face him, taking in his thick, dark brows knit together over anguished green eyes, the creases on his forehead, the tense line of his shoulders.  
“Thank you,” she said quietly, turning away.  
“Hawke…”  
She looked at him over her shoulder. “You think magic is to blame, don’t you?”  
He hesitated. “Don’t you?”  
She realized she’d been holding her breath, and exhaled slowly. “You should go.”  
“I’m -”  
“Was I unclear?” she asked, advancing on him. “I want you to go.”  
“Hawke, please, I -”  
“Stop!” she shouted, and he froze. “I’m sorry that not even this could make me hate myself. Maybe -” her voice cracked and she shook her head. “No. Just go.”  
His emotions waged war across his face, hurt, sadness, guilt… but the hatred remained, as always. Perhaps he couldn’t let it go, or perhaps he simply didn’t want to. Through the haze of her tears she watched him go, sick with the shame of knowing that she could have loved him, a man who hated the very tie that bound her to her father, to her sister. As soon as the door closed behind him she hurled her glass at it, barely hearing it shatter. She curled up in the corner by the desk and cried herself to sleep.

Sleeping resulted in ghastly nightmares, and waking meant facing the true horror, so with a bottle of wine in each hand, Hawke wandered the estate like a specter. She avoided bed at all costs; when weariness overcame her, she’d find a place to doze - her hammock, an armchair, wedged between the armoire and the vanity in her room. A fog enveloped her mind, blurring the lines of dream and reality, and she spent much of her day seeing people who probably weren’t there, and not seeing people who might have been.

“You’re in quite a state,” a familiar voice said.  
She had tried to climb the library stairs and failed, so she’d settled into a heap on the floor, propped against the banister, and at some point drifted off. Blinking several times, her guest came into focus. “What are you doing here?”  
“I know I’ve no right to be here,” her companion from the Hanged Man said, “but I heard what happened, and I… I was worried.”  
She tested the nearest wine bottle and found it empty. “It’s not your place to worry about me,” she growled.  
“I tried telling myself that, but it was remarkably ineffective,” he said, staying safely out of arm’s reach. “I told your serving girl that I’d leave as soon as she could assure me that you’re alright, but she couldn’t. Imagine that.”  
She glared at him. “What is it that you want?”  
“I sent her to ready a bath for you. I’d like you to go up of your own volition, but if you won’t, I will haul you upstairs and throw you in fully clothed.”  
She twisted to sit on her heels, steadying herself against the banister. “You think it would be that easy?”  
“That girl out there says you haven’t eaten today, or slept properly, and from the look of things I’d say you’re about six bottles in.” He crossed his arms. “I never was much of a templar, but yes, I think I could manage.”  
She positively seethed at him. “Do you have any idea what’s happened?” she growled through clenched teeth, but she could feel tears prickling at the backs of her eyes.  
“I’ve heard a few things. Not the whole story, but enough to know that it was awful beyond words.”  
She tried to will away her tears. “Then why are you here?” she choked out. “Why can’t you just leave me alone like everyone else?”  
“Yes, because being left alone has obviously served you well.” He crouched down before her. “You can’t run from this, Gwenyth, and you can’t hide forever. I’m not here to coddle you. You’re not broken.” And before she could protest, he hoisted her over his shoulder. She kicked and struggled, but his earlier assessment of her proved humiliatingly accurate. He put her down just outside her bedchamber, but she lost her balance and he had to catch her.  
Fury, tainted with shame, boiled white-hot in the pit of her stomach. “Let me go!” she cried, slamming her fist into his shoulder.   
He released her, and she stumbled back against the door.   
“Do you want to hit me?” he asked calmly. “Would that make you feel better?”  
She balled her hands into fists. “I… I…” Her stomach rolled violently, and she realized a second too late. Grabbing the hem of her dress, she vomited wine into her skirt. The force of it drove her to her knees, and between retches she could hear the blond man calling for Orana. By the time they got a bucket under her face, the storm had subsided. She gripped the door frame with one trembling hand and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Oh Maker,” she whispered shakily.   
She felt Orana’s dainty fingers at the back of her neck, unbuttoning the dress and helping Hawke peel it off. Her companion pulled her gently to her feet and guided her into her room, and she had never been so grateful to see a bath in her life. “You must think -”  
“I think you need to eat something before you’re sick again,” he said firmly as he helped her settle into the water. As if on cue, Orana arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits.  
“Do you need help, mistress?” she asked, eying the blond man nervously.  
She shook her head. “It’s alright, Orana. And I’m so sorry, about the mess.”


	10. Just This Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can't be strong all the time.

Hawke’s cheeks burned as she took tiny nibbles of biscuit. Gradually, the storm in her stomach calmed and she sank back, resting her head on the edge of the tub. In her peripheral vision, she could see her companion moving about her room. “Are you snooping?” she asked weakly.

“Not exactly.” He brought the stool from her vanity, and she glimpsed her hairbrush resting on the padded seat. Settling himself behind her, he eased the brush through her messy curls.

Her instinct was to protest, but it felt divine. She sighed softly as some of the tension melted out of her neck. “I thought I didn’t need to be coddled.”

“This isn’t coddling, this is a public service. Have you looked at yourself lately?”

His teasing tone made her mouth twitch, and she tried to splash him but the water ended up hitting her own face.

“You should settle down before you drown yourself,” he said, his voice stern over barely withheld laughter, as he drew the brush through her hair again. “That’s better. Down you go,” he instructed, and she obligingly dunked her head under the water and let him shampoo her hair, her scalp tingling from his careful ministrations.

She sat up to wash, wincing as she glided the soap over her sunburned arms.

“Maker, you are a mess,” he said, cringing.

“I really am,” she agreed, looking at her torn and blistered fingers. “What am I going to do?” she asked quietly.

“Tonight, you’re going to sleep it off, and tomorrow you’ll start again. It won’t be easy, but you’ll do it. You’re strong.”

She met his eyes for the first time since he’d arrived. “Do you… have you ever…?”

He nodded, his eyes dark with memory. “I never really knew my family, but I had a friend once… He gave me a better life than the one I was meant for. And I should have been there to save him, but I wasn’t.” He swallowed hard. “I never even got to say goodbye.”

Hawke bit her lip, remembering her mother touching her arm with a stranger’s hands, but it was still her face, still her voice saying I love you. “I got that. At least I got that.”

He held his hand out to her. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” He politely looked away and handed her a towel.

As she dried herself off, she stifled a giggle at the absurdity of this act of chivalry. “Thank you. For… everything.” She slipped into a clean nightgown and sat on the edge of the bed, towelling her hair.

“Yes, well…” he glanced around the room before giving her a small smile. “The change of scenery was well worth it.”

“Will you stay?” she asked impulsively.

He blinked at her. “What?”

She dipped her head, embarrassed. “I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he gave her a small but formal bow. “Mistress mine, my will is thine.” He undressed, folding his clothes neatly and laying them on the low bench by the door, and climbed under the covers with her.

She felt suddenly shy, nervous. “Do me a favor?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Of course,” he smiled, tucking his arms under his head.

“Be here when I wake up, alright?”

He reached over and brushed a damp tendril of hair away from her cheek. “I’ll stay as long as you like,” he promised.

“Thank you,” she whispered, resting her head on his chest.

  
  
  
  


Hawke awoke screaming, drenched in sweat. When she felt a hand on her shoulder she reeled away in a panic and fell out of bed.

“It’s me,” said a familiar voice.

With a shaking hand she lit the candle beside the bed, illuminating her companion’s worried face. She shook her head, her breath coming in short gasps. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, he assured her, offering a hand.

She let him help her back into bed, but when he tried to put his arm around her, he stiffened.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked, only the barest trace of hurt in his voice.

“No!” She grabbed his arm, her grip desperate, panicked. “Maker, no. I just…” Her voice cracked. “Yesterday… no, probably not yesterday. I don’t know. But I went to the dining room, and it hit me that I’d never see her again, and -” she choked back a sob, “- and I was relieved. Maybe even glad.” She turned her wide, tear-swollen eyes to him. “What does that make me?”

He reached out tentatively and cupped her cheek. “Human. That’s all. Just because you didn’t love everything about her doesn’t mean you didn’t love her. You’re remembering her for who she really was, not some sugar-coated ideal. Don’t you think she’d want that?”

“Probably not,” she chuckled, her voice shaking.

“Here, lie down,” he instructed. She laid her head in his lap and he stroked her forehead, her cheeks, her increasingly heavy eyelids.

"Why are you doing all this?" she murmured.

But she drifted off before he could answer.

 

The soft light of dawn filtered through a gap in the drapes, falling across the bed. Hawke lay there for a moment, watching the band of light rise and fall with her companion’s deep, snoring breaths. Myriad conflicting thoughts besieged her, not the least of which that she’d never woken up to a man in her bed, and so she didn’t know what to do next.

He had come here for her, worried about her. He had shaken her from her mire of misery and self-pity and dragged her, kicking and screaming, back to reality. He had stayed the night, comforted her, helped her sleep. Only a fool would believe that he did these things out of casual interest. The more pressing question, however, was if it was him that she had wanted, or just the solace of another person. As she reached over and cautiously brushed his tousled blond hair away from his face, something small echoed deep inside her and she realized she wasn’t sure of the answer.

And I don’t even know his name, she reminded herself.

She slipped out of bed, retrieved a dressing gown from the armoire, and slipped out into the hall. Outside her door, there was no evidence of the mess she’d made last night. She cringed as she recalled the debacle; what had possessed her to catch it in her skirt?

“Good morning, Messere,” Bodahn greeted her as she descended the stairs. “It’s good to see you...that is...”

“Not wandering about piss drunk? It’s alright, I’ve been awful and I know it. And I owe you all an apology.”

"Of course you don't, Messere. We know you're having a rough go of things."

Orana peeked her head around the corner. “Are you feeling better today, mistress?”

Rubbing her forehead, she groaned inwardly. “Much, thank you. And I am so very sorry for the mess.”

“Oh no, please don’t. It was no trouble. I’m still working on your dress, but -”

“Please don’t worry about the dress, Orana. It’s not worth it.”

The girl frowned, looking - like usual - as if she’d done something wrong. “If you’re sure…”

“I am,” Hawke assured her.

“Would you like me to make breakfast?”

She smiled. “That would be lovely.”

“For both of you?”

Over Orana’s shoulder, Hawke could see Bodahn’s look of surprise. “Yes, thank you.”

The girl flitted off into the kitchen and Hawke headed back upstairs to wake her guest.


	11. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You think you know a guy...

In Hawke’s absence, her companion had sprawled across the bed, and one leg had worked free of the blanket. Biting her lip, she crept close and trailed her fingertips up his muscular calf. His voice rumbled wordlessly from under the covers.

“Breakfast? I think I’ll faint if I don’t eat soon.”

He stretched and sat up. “You realize I have to wear the same clothes I had on last night? People will talk.” His mocking tone earned him a pillow across the face.

“Yes, well, it is your turn.” She paused in front of the mirror, pretending not to watch him get dressed, but the hand she lifted to fuss with her hair was trembling. “Maker, I really am going to faint.”

“Well, we can’t have that. My back can’t handle much more carrying you.”  

"I'm seriously considering revoking your invitation and eating all the breakfast myself." She made it halfway down the stairs before Bodahn's expression stopped her.

"By the stone - Ser Alistair? Is it really you?"

Her companion halted behind her. "Bodahn? Of all the -"

Her eyes darted back and forth between the two men. "You two know each other?"

Bodahn’s face lit up. "My boy and I traveled with Ser Alistair and Ser Regina during the blight." He looked past her. "And it was a nasty business, Ser, the way she turned on you like that. If you don’t mind my saying so."

Everything clicked into the unlikeliest place. She slowly turned to him, combing her memories for an image of King Cailan and comparing it to his face, which currently wore an anxious expression. Sure enough, the resemblance was there.

Of all the thoughts that could have crossed her mind, the one that did was finally a man mother would have approved of, and she dissolved into giggles. Alistair Theirin, rightful heir to the Ferelden throne, gave her a perplexed glare, and her laughter reached such a fever pitch that she plunked down on the step, shaking her head. "It's not -" she gasped "- not what you -" but her belly was aching and tears were rolling down her cheeks and she gave up trying to explain.

“Oh come on,” he huffed, exasperated.

She choked down a few deep breaths and stifled the worst of her hysterics. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m really not. It’s just -” when she tried to say the words, laughter threatened all over again. “I can’t - I’ll explain later.” She held out her hand and he helped her to her feet.

Bodahn stared at the two of them quizzically. Finally, he shook his head. “I... need to see to my boy. I’m here if you need anything, Messere.”

“Sandal?” Alistair said in surprise. “Sandal’s here too?”

“I went on an expedition to the Deep Roads a few years back. Bodahn and Sandal were there. Bodahn thinks I rescued Sandal, but truth be told, I’m not sure he ever needed help.” Breakfast was already on the table, and her stomach roared at the sight of food. “There was so much empty space here, with just Mother and I, so I offered them a place to stay.” She shrugged, breaking apart a biscuit. “Bodahn appointed himself my manservant, and I honestly don’t know how I’d get by without him. Especially…” Her mouth went dry. “Especially now.” She washed down her grief with tea. “I’m pretty sure you know most everything else.” She watched him expectantly.

He sighed into his tea. “How much do you want to know?”

She tempered her curiosity with politeness. “As much as you’re willing to tell?”

“I was recruited to the Wardens before I took my vows. At Ostagar, Teyrn Loghain  caused the death of King Cailan and the Grey Wardens of Ferelden save myself and one other.”

“Regina Cousland.”

He scowled. “That’s the one.”

Hawke recalled that night in his room, when he spoke of betrayal. The final piece of the puzzle.

“Loghain spread the word that we were responsible for the slaughter. He sent soldiers after us - and an assassin. He sent a blood mage to poison the Arl of Redcliffe. He enslaved elves from the alienages, tortured those who spoke out against him...and when we had the opportunity to punish him for his crimes, Regina decided we should not just let him live, but make him a Grey Warden as well. I told her that I’d leave if she offered the Joining to a murderer. She didn’t try to stop me.” He laughed bitterly. “She told me I was embarrassing myself.”

“Is that why you came to Kirkwall?”

“No, it wasn’t until she married the man that I decided nowhere in Ferelden would be far enough away.”

She tried to wrap her mind around it. Regina Cousland Mac Tir - Warden Commander, Teyrna of Gwaren, Hero of Amaranthine - a heartless, manipulative shrew. “Wow. Someone spent a bit too much time around darkspawn.” She offered a tentative smile and his expression softened just a little.

“It could be worse. I could have married her.”

She felt a twinge at those words that made her uneasy.

“Now, are you gonna tell me what was so funny back on the stairs?”

“Oh, that.” She rubbed her forehead, embarrassed. “When I realized who you were, the irony just struck me. All the sneaking around, with a man mother actually would have favored.” The humor had worn off by now, and saying the words just added to that weight in her chest.

“I am so sorry for what happened,” he said gently, reaching across the corner of the table.

Hawke’s rational mind protested even as she let him take her hand. He stroked her knuckles with his thumb, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

“Messere,” Bodahn said from the doorway, “a friend of yours is here.” He brushed his shoulder with one hand, his signal for Anders. He’d initially devised the code to help her dodge her mother’s questions, but it made her giggle and he knew it. He had signals to represent all of her friends. Well, except Aveline.

“You can send him in,” she replied. She adjusted her dressing gown and smoothed her hair.

“Hawke, I’m -” Anders paused in the doorway. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were… busy.”

“Not at all.” She looked to Alistair for assent, and he reluctantly nodded. “This is Alistair. Alistair, I’d like you to meet my friend Anders.”

“Alistair, the Grey Warden?” he asked incredulously.

“So they say.”

“Anders is also recently departed from the Order. You two could start a club.”

“Huh. How about that?” he said with a bemused grin.

“Would you like some tea, Anders?”

“Ah, no, thank you. I just came to make sure you’re alright.”

She smiled encouragingly. “I’m alright.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Will we see you tonight?”

The thought of facing not just one or two people but a whole group dizzied her somewhat, and her smile faltered. “I… maybe.”

“Fair enough. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Anders.”

When he was gone, she and Alistair exchanged a look.

“I can hear it now,” he said. “‘Bastard Prince of Ferelden Caught in Bed with Hightown’s Most Eligible Lady’.”

“We’re not in bed,” she teased, chuckling. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

She led him out to the garden. “I made that… at some point,” she said, pointing to the hammock. She showed him the blisters on her fingers. “See?”

“Is it safe?”

She elbowed him in the side. “Only one way to find out.”

“And give you the chance to knock me out?” He opted for a nearby bench. “What sort of fool do you take me for?”

“I would never,” she said with a curtsey, “my prince.”

“Oh, don’t you dare,” he growled, grabbing the front of her dressing gown and pulling her in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter that should feel a bit rushed. Camp NaNo is almost over (it didn't exactly go well) so soon I'll be back to working on this regularly.
> 
> I can't tell you all how much I appreciate you <3 Knowing that there really are people out there who enjoy what I write is an incredible motivator.


	12. Facing Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funny thing happened on the way to Gamlen's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry both for the late update and for it still being a little rushed. I'll do better next week.
> 
> And thanks, as always, for reading :)

Hawke gave Alistair a tour of the estate, explaining how she and Carver had reclaimed the property from slavers. Her throat still tightened when she spoke his name; perhaps it always would.

"Do you want to tell me about him?" he asked gently.

She hesitated only a moment. "They were twins - Bethany and Carver. She was a mage too, like our father." She shook her head. "Poor Carver. He felt like magic controlled his whole life. I guess it did." She looked around. "I often wonder if he'd have been happy here." It was hard to imagine Carver being happy anywhere.

A firm knock at the door interrupted her. "Messere," Bodahn greeted her, "Sebastian is here to see you."

"Are you always this popular?" Alistair asked wryly.

She shrugged. "I'm never home often enough to find out."

Sebastian waited by the fireplace, a basket in his hands. When he saw her, his hold faltered and he nearly dropped it. "Hawke! You're not dressed," he sputtered. "And - and you have company. I apologize -" he held out the basket - "I didn't bring enough."

An awkward silence spun out, and to Hawke's relief it was Alistair that broke it. "Actually, I should be going."

"I'll... take this into the dining room." Sebastian nodded politely to Alistair and slipped past them, but the awkwardness remained.

“So…”

“Thank you,” she said. “Really. For everything.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure.”

“Your pleasure involves watching me vomit?” she teased. “That says all manner of things about you.”

“You’d better go get dressed. Your absurdly handsome friend in there might have a paroxysm if he sees you like that again.”

Laughing, she shook her head. “Poor Sebastian. They really shouldn’t let him out of the Chantry.” She stood a moment longer, waiting for him to say… well, she didn’t know what she wanted him to say. Finally, she turned and headed upstairs.

He called after her. “If you need anything...”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

She joined Sebastian in the dining room, thanking Orana for bringing tea. Her guest looked relieved to see her in proper clothing.

“I should have come sooner,” he said, taking her hand in both of his. “I am so sorry, Hawke.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “You’re here now. That’s what matters. And the food is a nice touch.”

They ate roast lamb and fresh bread that she knew he’d made himself. “This is wonderful,” she declared, her mouth full. “You’re so kind.”

As usual, Sebastian appeared embarrassed by praise. “It was the least I could do. And…” he inhaled deeply. “I had hoped this would be a good time to discuss arrangements.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Arrangements?”

He looked around the room, carefully avoiding her face. “For your mother’s funeral. I know that you… dealt with the cremation already, but her soul should still be commended to the Maker.”

She slammed her cup down on the table. “You must be joking. That’s why you came?”

“Hawke, I -”

“Let me be clear,” she growled. “My friend Sebastian is welcome in this house. _Brother_ Sebastian, servant of the Maker, is not. I’ll leave it to you to sort out the difference.”

“I simply ask that you consider -”

“ _You_ should consider that my entire family is dead!”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” he said quietly, “I am familiar with that feeling.”

Her stomach clenched with guilt. “Well, I’m glad that it didn’t affect your relationship with the Maker, but I’m afraid I’m not feeling quite so magnanimous.”

He didn’t flinch. “And what would your mother want?”

“I’m fairly certain that she’d want to live, that she’d want her children to live! Obviously her wishes were not high on the Maker’s list of concerns.”

“And Bethany?”

Her sister’s name hit her like a paralysis spell.

“What would she have you do?” he prodded, his voice soft and sweet as ever.

It was that softness, that sweetness, that endeared him so to Hawke, because it reminded her of Bethany. Poor Bethany, who so devoutly followed the very faith that condemned her at birth. She sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Very well. I should discuss the matter with Gamlen first.”

“Don’t be angry with me, Hawke,” he pleaded.

She forced a smile. “Not at all. I’m sorry, I’m so awful sometimes.”

“You needn’t apologize. I do understand your struggle. Would you like me to accompany you to Lowtown?”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you, but no.” She hadn’t seen Gamlen since that night, and of the myriad ways the conversation could go, the vast majority weren’t fit for Sebastian’s ears.

“Is there anything you need?”

She shook her head. “I’m glad you came. It’s good to see you.”

“You always know where to find me,” he reminded her.

Her smile sharpened just a little. “Don’t push it, Sebastian.”

 

She traded her dress for the black robe her mother had purchased for her after Carver died. To her surprise, it fit a little looser than she remembered. She blinked back bitter, angry tears and vowed to pull herself together. No more wasting away from grief while Maker knows what took place outside her door.

“I’m going to Gamlen’s,” she told Bodahn.

“Will you be back for dinner, Messere?”

She considered this briefly. It would be nice to see her friends again - _and Alistair_ , a tiny voice whispered. “I’m not sure. Don’t wait up.”

He frowned. “Take care, Messere,” he said seriously.

 

The crowded Hightown streets overwhelmed her after her prolonged isolation. She kept her head down and her pace quick, and though she could see passersby stopping to stare or whisper, they kept their distance. Hawke abandoned the main thoroughfare for quieter side streets, navigating narrow alleyways with ease. She was making her way downcity when she froze.

A puddle of blood darkened the step below her.

Heart racing, she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, the blood was gone. She braced herself against the wall as memories of her frantic flight through Lowtown consumed her. Her blood pounded in her ears and it sounded like “too late, too late” and the pounding swelled into a roar and the world went dark.

 

Maker, but her head hurt. She tried to raise a hand to her forehead, but she couldn’t get her arm to move. Forcing her eyes open, she found herself in a room dimly lit by lamplight spilling through the doorway. But it wasn’t her room, or her doorway. She tried to sit up and realized that her hands were bound behind her back. Her body tensed and she held her breath, listening.

“I think we should try the Viscount,” a man growled. “She’s kind of a big deal, that one is. He might pay.”

“And he might not. And he might send guards after us, and they might find us and skin us. That what you want?”

She inhaled sharply and choked on the dust. She could feel the approaching footsteps reverberate through the rough wood planks. The silhouette of a man grabbed her by one arm and yanked her upright, sending a bolt of pain up her arm.

“Well good morning, princess,” he sneered. He had a great round belly and a cloud of stink. “Sleep well?”

She gritted her teeth, trying to see past him but failing. She must have gotten dust in her eyes, because she couldn’t quite focus. “You’re going to regret this,” she hissed, working her wrists against the ropes that held them.

“Is that right? Because I gotta tell ya, after all the stories of the red-haired hawk, I ain’t impressed.”

Stories, she repeated in her head. “Is that so?”

“Oh, yeah. I heard tell of all them bandits you lot killed.” He bent over her, resting his hands on his thighs. “But so far, you just don’t look so tough without your friends.”

“What friends?” she growled. She’d twisted one hand around, pressing her thumb firmly against the knot.

He laughed, his hot, rank breath descending upon her like a noxious cloud. “You know. The crossbow dwarf, the buxom pirate, and the blue demon.”

Her lips curled and she shook her head, leaning forward, trying to get one foot under herself. “Are you listening to yourself?” she said, almost panting with exertion. “That sounds ridiculous.”

He blinked, taken aback. “Well… well that’s what they say!”

It was her turn to laugh. “Well, isn’t this awkward for you? You see…” Licking her lips, she conjured the tiniest flame to assail the knot that held her hands. “I work quite well on my own.”

As his eyes widened in disbelief, the slowly burning rope gave way. She lunged up at him, her robes smoldering in several places, and knocked him to the floor, coming down on his massive gut with one knee. His eyes rolled back and he went limp.

A surprised cry came from the other room, and she knew there wasn’t time. She snatched the dagger from her captor-turned-captive’s belt and buried it in his throat, the wave of hot blood turning her stomach as she rolled away. A man charged through the doorway and she knocked him back with a fireball that ignited his clothes. He staggered backwards, screaming and flailing, and she rushed past him, desperately seeking her staff, but her vision refused to stay clear, no matter how many times she blinked.

Dodging the flaming bandit sent her crashing into a table, the pain in her hip barely registering. As she stumbled out of the room, she saw three, maybe four more men coming her way. To buy herself time, she retreated and sealed the doorway shut with a sheet of ice. Backing against the far wall, she blocked out the last guttural cries of the man burning to death. Raising her hands above her head, she focused all her energy, summoned all her strength, and hoped desperately that it would be enough.

As the men broke through the ice barrier, she unleashed a fiery blast that razed everything in its path. When she could hear no more screaming, she careened through the place, avoiding the remaining flames as best she could. The second door she tried brought fresh air and moonlight on water. She took three steps out the door and tripped over her own feet, hitting the ground hard enough to slam her teeth together. Stars sparkled across her already hazy vision.

“Serah, are you alright?”

“I - please,” she gasped. As the figure came closer, Hawke recognized the insignia of the guard. She sighed with relief. “Give me a hand, would you?”

“Messere Hawke?”

She took the gauntleted hand and struggled to her feet, hurting in more places than she could identify. “Brennan?” she asked uncertainly.

“What in the world happened to you?” the guardswoman demanded. “You need healing!”

Hawke tried to shake her head, but it sent waves of pain bounding through her skull. “I… I might. Can you help me get to the Hanged Man?”

  
  
  



	13. Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth will out.

Brennan reluctantly guided Hawke to the tavern, protesting all the way. When they made it to the door, she insisted that she could manage on her own.

“I’m not sure that’s wise, Messere Hawke,” she argued.

“Honestly, Brenna, I’m fine. My - my friends are here. I’ll just -” She pushed through the door, and the noise assaulted her. When she tried to press her hands over her ears, she listed sideways, and Brennan had to catch her around the waist to keep her upright.

“Come on, Messere. Let’s find Varric.”

“No, not Varric,” she said petulantly. “Alistair. I want Alistair.” She was pretty sure Brennan said something in response, but she couldn’t hear her over the awful high-pitched whine bouncing around her head. She made her way to the stairs with the help of a gauntleted hand on her waist, but the stairs themselves proved more of a challenge.

“Hawke?”

She looked up and met a pair of bright blue eyes. “Varric!” she cried, cringing as the volume of her own voice drove a spike into her head. “I was just… coming to see you!”

“Is that right?” With a great deal of grunting and jostling, he helped Brennan get her up the stairs and into his suite.

She slumped into a chair and covered her ears, but the buzzing just got louder.

Her stomach rolled violently.

“Oh, I don’t -”

Not again.

Miraculously, a bucket appeared on her lap just in time. A firm hand on her shoulder kept her from falling over as she emptied her stomach.

The room spun once, twice, and as she shut her eyes she could swear she heard a familiar voice say “This is becoming a nasty habit of yours.”

“Alistair?” she mumbled.

There were too many voices to sort them all out, and then everything but the buzzing got quiet. A cool, damp cloth touched her forehead and Maker, it hurt. She jerked away.

“What happened to you, love?” Even through that awful buzzing, his voice sounded thick with worry.

“I want you. I mean, I wanted you, I...” She frowned, unable to find words that made sense. She tried to look at him but she still couldn’t focus.

“Flattering as that is, darling, I really don’t think this is the time.” He lifted a flask to her lips. “Come on, down the hatch.”

The soft warmth of the healing potion diffused through her, and the cloud of pain that enveloped broke apart, allowing her to feel each specific injury. She looked down at her hands and saw ugly, blistered flesh, raw and oozing in some places. “Oh,” she said dully. “There was a fire.”

“At your estate?” he demanded with some alarm.

“No, no… I was going to Gamlen’s house. I… did I fall? I think I fell.”

“I think you did.”

“There were bandits,” she recalled. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I killed them.”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to go bandit-hunting alone?”

“It didn’t!” she protested ardently, only exacerbating the pain in her head. “It hurts,” she whispered.

“Your head?” He dabbed the back of her neck with the cool cloth.

Her head, her arms, one shoulder, and when she moved wrong, her hip. “Everything,” she groaned. “I want to lie down.”

“Sorry, I’m afraid lying down is off limits.”

“I hurt,” she snarled. “Let me lie down!” She tried to stand, but he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back down. She flinched, her hand going to her left shoulder, which hurt like mad.

“Easy, Gwenyth. You hit your head pretty hard. Varric’s gone to get a healer, they should be back soon.” He sat back down beside her and set about gently wiping her face. “You really are a mess, you know.”

She put one stinging hand over his, pressing the cloth to her cheek. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly. “I was thinking about... saying goodbye.”

“Oh,” he said, pulling his hand away, and a sudden racket interrupted them.

“Andraste’s sword, Hawke, what happened to you!” Anders turned to Alistair. “Help me get her to the bed.” The two men hoisted her up, making her cry out.

“Careful of that shoulder,” Alistair advised.

They laid her down, and Anders placed one hand on her chest. “I need you to sleep for a bit, Hawke. Is that alright?”

She tried to nod. “That sounds lovely,” she sighed as the spell took hold.

 

“Ughhh.” Hawke awoke to a dull throb in her head.

“Hey,” said a familiar voice. “Welcome back!”

“Varric?” She blinked, and the dimly-lit room slowly came into focus - Varric’s room. She struggled to sit up, and Varric helped her. “What am I doing here?”

“Wow, Hawke. I thought last night meant something to you.”

She looked at him askance, and they both laughed.

“Are you hungry? Blondie said you could eat something if you want.”

She rubbed her stomach. “I feel like I could eat half the city. What time is it?”

“Midafternoon. You’ve been out for about a day.”

Her eyes widened. “Bodahn must be -”

“Relax, we let him know where you are.” He stood and squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll get you something to eat, then you can ask all the questions you want. Your lean and hungry look is making me nervous.”

To her surprise - and embarrassment - Hawke realized she had been stripped down to her smalls. Aside from the headache, she discovered tightness in one shoulder and a pretty tender area over her hip. Her bandaged hands tingled faintly. She rubbed her forehead. I need a sodding vacation.

Varric returned with a tray, and Hawke went straight for the tankard. “What’s this?” she demanded, sniffing.

“It’s water. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”  
“They have water here?”

“Blondie also said no drinking for a few days, to give your brain time to solidify.” He settled into the chair by his bed. “So, what do you remember?”

She swallowed her food and took a deep breath. “I was going to see Gamlen. I… I hadn’t been to Lowtown since -” she gulped, “- since that night. I guess I blacked out. I woke up on a dirty floor in a dark room with my hands tied behind my back, and I overheard some men talking about… well, I think about ransoming me to the viscount. I burned through the ropes and set the place on fire in the process of getting out. Thank the Maker Brennan found me.”

“And instead of letting her take you to Anders, or home, or any other logical place, you asked her to bring you here.”

“What can I say, Varric?”

He raised a hand. “Uh, before you try to gloss over things with contrived flattery, she already told me that you were very adamant about who you wanted to see.”

She hid her blush behind her drink.

“Tell me again how this isn’t a thing?”

“Well, it wasn’t.”

He leaned toward her, resting his forearms on his knees. “Is he really the bastard prince of Ferelden?”

Hawke chuckled. "He really is."

"Maker's cowlick, Hawke, this one practically writes itself!"

A knock at the door headed off her impending protest. Anders poked his head in.

"Oh good, you're awake." He came and sat on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Not bad, now that I've eaten. And I assume I owe it all to you?"

“Your friend actually helped quite a bit before he took off.”

She grimaced. “I threw up again, didn’t I?”

“Again?” her friends asked in unison.

“Don’t ask,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“Your hands and wrists were badly burned - and there was no saving those robes, I’m sorry to say. You dislocated your shoulder, bruised one hip, and let’s not forget the concussion. Care to explain how you managed all that?”

“I blacked out in a Lowtown alley and got kidnapped by bandits. The burns were an unfortunate side effect of my daring self-rescue.”

“Said rescue wouldn’t have something to do with the warehouse on the Docks that burned to the ground, would it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said abruptly, “and hopefully Brennan doesn’t either.” She gave Anders a beseeching look. “You’re not serious about the ‘no drinking’ bit, are you?”

“Only if you’re serious about the ‘complete recovery’ bit. And I don’t want you left alone tonight. Head injuries are tricky. We can’t be too careful.”

“Pajama party at Varric’s - lovely! Does this mean I get to braid your hair?”

“You don’t have to stay here, if you have someone willing to escort you home.

“I - oh.” She grinned. “In that case -” she gave Varric a warm smile. “How would you like your bed back?”

“Back? Where do you think I slept?” He winked at her.

“We sent Merrill to your estate last night, to let Bodahn know you wouldn’t be home. She brought this.” He laid something on her lap.

Hawke unfolded a lavender dress with an ungodly amount of lace and ruffles. “Of course she did,” she groaned. To her surprise, her shoulder hardly hurt at all as she lifted her arms to slip into the dress. It left her shoulders bare, and the ruffles made her feel like some decadent Orlesian dessert.

“The boots really bring it all together,” Varric teased.

The hem of the dress stopped just short of her scuffed black boots. “At least she didn’t do it on purpose, like you two would have.”

He and Anders exchanged a look, then shrugged innocently. “Try not to get kidnapped without me, will you? Bianca gets so pouty when she misses out on a good time.”

She took a few wobbly steps before she steadied.

“Still alright?” Anders asked.

She nodded.

“I’ll stick around here for a while. Send for me if you need me.”

 

Alistair gave her an odd look as he opened the door. "You're looking quite a bit better."

"I hear you had a hand in that," she replied, suddenly nervous. "Anders says I'm not to be left unattended tonight. Would you -" A lump formed in her throat. "Would you walk me home?"  

“I… yes, of course.”

When they left the tavern, she grabbed his sleeve. “I thought we might take a shortcut.”

He looked at her quizzically. “Lead on.”

She led him around the back of the tavern and down the filthy steps to Darktown.

He snorted. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”

The tightness in her chest loosened a little, and she laughed. “I thought you Grey Wardens were the adventurous sort.”

 


	14. Saying Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Alistair need to talk.

Hawke took Alistair to the cellar entrance of the estate, pausing to point out Anders’ clinic. “And that’s where you can find the healer.”

“That’s rather convenient,” he grumbled.

She conjured a tiny flame and lit one of the lanterns she kept down here. “What does that mean?” she asked, scrutinizing him in the faint light.   
“I, uh… It just seems like you require his... services... with some regularity. Which reminds me - what did happen to you yesterday?”

Sighing, she led him through the dusty warren of stairs and corridors. “I fainted, probably hit my head on the way down, got kidnapped by bandits, and escaped with the industrious aid of fire. A lot of fire.”

“You fainted?” he repeated incredulously.

She took a deep breath with the slightest hint of quiver. “My mother, she… the night she went missing, we tracked her to Lowtown. A boy said he saw her, helping an injured man. We found a trail of blood, but…” She shook her head. “We were too late.” She shut her eyes, and when his fingers brushed hers she squeezed his hand. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Right,” he said, swallowing. “About saying goodbye.”

Suddenly, she understood his odd demeanor. Or hoped she did. “Oh, Alistair.” Tugging his hand, she sat down on a nearby crate, and he followed. “I think that came out wrong.” She turned to face him, resting one hand on his knee. “I think I said before how lucky I was, that I got to say goodbye to mother. I had that with Carver, as well… but not with Bethany.” In the dark, she could hardly make out his expression, which actually made it easier. “I woke up in that warehouse, alone and unarmed and unsure of what I was up against, and all I could think was ‘What if I die here? I could die today and Alistair would never know…” she gulped, “how I… how I feel.’”

"I thought you didn't want this getting complicated," he said quietly.

Her throat tightened and she wished desperately for water. "I didn't. But... you make me laugh. And you call me on my bullshit. And when I fell apart, you somehow knew how to hold me together.” She looked away. “I wanted you to hear all that. Even if you don’t -”

Turning her face back to him, he kissed her so hard it nearly hurt, his fingers tangling in her hair. She climbed onto his lap, wrapping her legs around him, and his hands fought through layers of ruffles to her skin. Digging his fingers into her hips, he pulled her against him, the pressure and friction through her smallclothes making her gasp into his mouth. With singular determination, he lavished attention on her lips, her neck, her incredibly sensitive ears, while urging her against him until, to her relative surprise - and possible embarrassment - she cried out in release.

With a nervous, shaky laugh, she rested her forehead against his while he held tightly her trembling body.

He brought his lips to her ear. “Can I tell you something?” he whispered, his breath making her shiver.

“I knew it,” she sighed. “You are a demon, aren’t you?”

He chuckled. “I spilled that drink on purpose.”

She leaned back to look at him, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders. “You what?”

It was his turn to look embarrassed. “I, uh, I kind of watched you for… for a while. And you were so beautiful, and brave, and a little bit wild, and I had no idea what to say to a woman like you, so...”

“So, giving me a beer bath seemed like a good plan?”

He dropped to the low, sexy tone she so loved. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Didn’t it just?” she murmured against his lips.

 

Belated embarrassment kicked in as Hawke and Alistair emerged from the cellar to a fervent greeting from Hugo.

“Andraste’s toenails, Hugo, calm down! I’m so-” she turned to apologize to Alistair just in time to see him tackle the Mabari. She watched the two roll around on the ground and concluded it was playful rolling. “I’m going to see about dinner,” she called over her shoulder. “Neither of you had better break anything.”

Bodahn was so relieved to see her that she braced herself for a hug, but it didn’t happen. “Messere, thank goodness you’re home! We’ve all been worried sick about you.”

“They told me that they sent word -”

“They did, Messere, but it’s much better to see you in one piece.” He smiled. “Now, what can I do for you?”

She requested dinner for two and asked him to invite Gamlen to lunch tomorrow. “If Alistair doesn’t get eaten by the dog, let him know that I’m just freshening up and I’ll come find him shortly.”

To her surprise, she didn’t look as bad as she thought. The boys had done an excellent job of cleaning the dirt and dried blood out of her hair, and she guessed most of the dust she currently wore came from the cellar.

Her cheeks flushed just thinking about their time in the cellar, and she decided she wouldn’t rest until she returned him the favor. Digging through her armoire, she found the dress that she’d bought half on a whim and half on Bethany’s insistence. The deep purple bodice hugged and lifted in ways that would make her self-conscious in public. She tousled her curls to the left to hide the gash that, from the look of it, was probably going to scar.

Alistair had found his way to the fireplace. He sat cross-legged on the rug, Hugo's head in his lap, chatting with Bodahn like an old friend. She smiled, a little sadly. He would have made a great king. “I see you’ve won over the man of the house,” she called from the loft. As she came into view, Alistair rewarded her with widening eyes.

“Dinner should be ready shortly, Messere,” Bodahn said, looking decidedly not at her.

She offered Alistair her hand. “Wine?” She helped him to his feet and pulled him close. “Anders says I’m not allowed, but I’d hate to deprive you.”

“How committed are we to this ‘dinner’ thing?” he murmured, trailing his fingers over her bare shoulder.

“No dinner, no dessert,” she teased, slipping out of his reach. “Didn’t they teach you that in the Chantry?”

He laughed and followed her into the dining room. “You think they served dessert in the Chantry? That’s cute.”

“What was it like?” she asked, fighting the urge to sit on the table out of respect for her mother.

“Dessert? Surely you’ve had dessert before.”

She chuckled. “You know what I meant.”

Sighing, he settled into a chair and accepted a glass of wine. “Probably pretty much the way you’d imagine. Boring, stuffy, lonely. Then, as I got older, it was more stuffy, lonely, challenging. Templar training isn’t easy, and I was good at it. And lucky me, I got out before they started giving me lyrium.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I never hunted mages, you know. Nor did I want to. I didn’t ask to be shipped off to the Chantry.”

She shrugged dismissively. “I’m fairly confident that if you had a problem with apostates, I’d know by now.”

Orana appeared with dinner. “I’m so glad you’re alright, Mistress. We were worried.”

“I’m sorry to have worried you, Orana. You’re very sweet. You remember Alistair, don’t you?”

“I do,” she said, smiling politely. “Can I do anything else?”

“No, dear, thank you. Did Bodahn mention lunch tomorrow?”  
“Yes, Mistress. Your uncle is coming?”

“With any luck. Don’t make an inordinate fuss, though. Something simple is fine.”

Alistair watched the girl slip back into the kitchen. “I have to say, you don’t exactly strike me as the servant-having type. Not - I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it, I just -”

Laughing, she held up a hand to spare him  further effort. “Orana came here in the service of a magister from Tevinter. Let’s just say one thing led to another, and I offered her a place here. I can’t seem to pay her enough to stop calling me ‘mistress’, though.” It took a concerted effort not to immediately shovel food into her mouth; after starving herself in grief, her body couldn’t seem to get enough food.

“I imagine it took some getting used to.”

That small sadness returned. A castle full of servants was Alistair’s bloody birthright. He shouldn’t be living in that filthy tavern in this miserable city.

“Is something on your mind?” Alistair asked between bites.

His insight nearly startled her. She considered her words carefully. “Why aren’t you ruling Ferelden?”

He looked surprised. “Because if I didn’t renounce my claim to the throne, Anora would have had me executed?”

“I’ve actually heard that part. I more meant… I mean… how did it even come to that?”

He sighed heavily, making her regret the question. “For the record, I never wanted to be king. And until Cailan died, I was never going to be.” A small, sad smile drifted across his lips. “You know, that was the best thing about being a Grey Warden, at first. I was no longer the bastard prince, or the spoiled urchin from Redcliffe Castle. The Wardens made me feel like my own man. Till that bastard Loghain killed the king, and suddenly I had everyone telling me that I had a duty to Ferelden. And believe you me, the Wardens are mad about duty.” He looked up at her, his brow creased. “Look, are you sure you want to be hearing about this? I mean, it has a lot to do with her.”

“Do you still love her?” she blurted out. It was all she could do not to clap her hands over her mouth.

He scowled. “I don’t think I ever loved her. I don’t think I ever even knew her.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Although in my defense, I think she had everyone fooled. She played wide-eyed and sweet and innocent from the start, and we all bought into it.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. All I know is that she convinced me I had to become king… but at the Landsmeet, she sided against me. I don’t even know why she convinced Anora to spare my life, because she didn’t show a shred of guilt, or remorse.” His voice cracked a little. “She told me I would have made a terrible king.” He cleared his throat. “And I had said that all along. But the woman spent the entire Blight trying to convince me otherwise, only to humiliate me in front of half of Denerim...” He took a drink and shrugged. “Let’s just say it wasn’t my best day ever.”

“I think you’d make a fine king,” she said quietly.

“Right. I’m sure spilling a drink on the Empress would be a wonderful way to open diplomatic negotiations with Orlais.” They both laughed, dispelling the tension that had gathered. "What about you?"

She shook her head. "Nah, I'd make a terrible king."

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "That's not what I meant. I've heard so many thrilling tales of your exploits, they can't all be true."

Getting to her feet, she rounded the table slowly, putting an extra sway in her hips. Bending over, she slid one hand up his thigh and brushed her lips against his ear. "Let's go upstairs and I'll thrill you properly," she whispered.


	15. Bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some bridges to burn, some to build.

Hawke awoke with a ravenous hunger. She carefully extricated herself from the tangle of limbs and bedding, smiling in self-satisfaction when Alistair gave no indication that she had disturbed him. After last night’s performance, he should sleep past lunch!

Everyone else must still have been sleeping. She made her way quietly to the kitchen to make tea, then loaded a tray with buttered bread and apple slices and sprawled out on the rug in front of the fireplace. She adored the house staff, but Maker it was nice to be alone for a minute.

The knock at the door nearly startled a scream out of her. Shaking the crumbs out of her dressing gown, she answered it cautiously.

“Fenris?” she said, disbelieving.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just… well, I heard from Donnic that you had been injured.”

“No, it’s fine. Um, come in? I bet the tea’s still warm.” She’d meant it as a polite - and hollow - gesture, yet to her surprise he followed her inside. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m quite alright. I’ll… let me get you a cup.”

She returned to find him sitting stiffly on a bench along the wall. “Is it true that you were captured by bandits?” he asked, holding the cup in both hands as she filled it. She got the impression that he was holding back a grin.

“Captured is a strong word. I… I fell and hit my head, and had the misfortune to be discovered by bandits.” She pushed her messy curls back to show him the scar that disappeared into her hairline.

“Well, I -”

“Have I missed breakfast?” a voice called from the mezzanine.

Hawke cringed as the scene played out in slow motion - Alistair at the railing, shirtless and hair a mess; Fenris still as stone, the cup halfway to his lips, eyes narrowing as they moved from Alistair to Hawke.

Fenris got to his feet, discarding his tea on a nearby table. “That didn’t take long,” he snarled.

Indignation burned away her chagrin. “Excuse me?” she demanded, increasingly incensed when he ignored her. “Fenris!” She pursued him to the foyer. “DON’T YOU DARE WALK OUT ON ME AGAIN!” she roared.

He froze, his hand almost to the doorknob, his back still to her.

“Did you truly have the audacity to say that? ‘Didn’t take long’ to what, Fenris? It was one night! No, no - it was one evening, and as you so astutely pointed out on your way out the door, it was a mistake!”

His hand dropped to his side and his shoulders stiffened, but still he didn’t face her.

“I’m glad you walked out on me then, because I didn’t realize it at the time, but being with you was a mistake.” Her hands were shaking, and she balled them into fists at her side, “Every time you blame something on magic, you’re blaming me. Me, my sister, my father. Do you understand that? Whether you mean to or not, when you go off about mages, you’re talking about me, too. And that means you blame me for what happened to you.” Her voice cracked as hot tears spilled down her cheeks. “You blame me for what happened to my mother.”

Finally he turned to her, his face contorted in anguish. “Hawke, I -”

“I have helped you, Fenris. Time and again I’ve helped you - and used magic to do it. And I would help you again in a heartbeat, because in spite of everything, I care about you, and you deserve sanctuary from the torment you’ve endured. But my magic is a part of me. It’s who I am. And - and damn you for wanting me to be ashamed of it!" She turned her back on him, and after a long, painful silence, she heard him leave.

Alistair still stood at the railing. Hawke gathered her breakfast tray and went upstairs.

"I'm sorry," he said, taking the tray. "I feel like I shouldn't have seen that."

"No! Maker, no," she sighed, wiping her cheeks. "A mage's life means too many secrets. I don't want to keep anything from you."

“You know,” he said through a mouthful of buttered toast, “it’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type.” He swallowed. “Even taking the angsty elf out of the equation, most of your friends are men, and most of those men are absurdly good-looking.”

“You’re the one talking about how good looking they are - perhaps I should be jealous,” she teased.

“As if anyone could compete with the legendary Gwenyth Hawke,” he cooed, bowing to her.

She grinned. “My uncle’s coming for lunch. I - we - need to discuss arrangements for mother’s funeral.” Her voice shrank as she spoke, as if she could hardly bear to hear the words. “Why don’t we have dinner at the Hanged Man tonight, with some of my friends? Do you play Diamondback?”

“Uh, a bit, and badly.”

“That’s alright. Isabela cheats, so you’ll lose anyhow.”

 

Gamlen arrived looking predictably hungover. As soon as he saw Gwenyth he pulled her into a tight embrace. She was so taken aback that she almost forgot how hugging worked.

“You seem well,” he said, looking her over. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

She shrugged, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I had a rough go for a bit, but I’m alright now.”

She had set a small table up outside for lunch, in the shadow of a great tree.

“There was a fire on the docks - you and your lot have anything to do with that?”

“A fire? Hmm, how about that.”

They ate in silence for a while, Hawke wishing that he’d somehow broach the subject. Finally she took a deep breath.

“Brother Sebastian came to see me. He thinks we should have a proper Chantry funeral for mother.”

He couldn’t seem to look at her. “What do you think?”

She shrugged. “Mother would probably like it. It’s… expected.”

He nodded. “What do you need me to do?”

“Come to the Chantry with me?”

He groaned.

“I know. I’ll buy drinks after?”

“Somebody has to.”

 

Sebastian looked incredibly pleased to see them both. He agreed to arrange everything personally - it wasn’t his usual duty, but Elthina was willing to make an exception in this case. He’d already made some preparations. All in all, the process was easier than she expected. She was surprisingly grateful for her uncle’s presence. Somehow, seeing him struggle with his grief connected them in a way nothing else had. They left the Chantry sad and a little weary.

This time, she hugged him. "I'm glad you came with me."

"Are you headed home now?"

A lump formed in her throat as she realized that she would have to return to Lowtown. "I... I don't know." She looked up at him. "It's... It's very difficult for me. Going back there. I don't want to make the trip alone."

"You want me to walk with you?" he asked in disbelief.

"If you don't -"

"No, it's not that! I just..." he shrugged. "Not used to being needed for anything."

Their walk through Hightown was blessedly uneventful. As they descended the steps to Lowtown's main thoroughfare though, Hawke's heart began to pound. She misstepped, and when Gamlen grabbed her arm, she latched onto his wrist with her free hand.

"You're alright, girl," he said gently. "Come on."

"Keep talking," she pleaded, her throat tight, and she clung to his arm.

"I... uh...I ought to have you over for dinner sometime.”

She kept her eyes on his shoes, trying to step in time with him.

“We’re… you’re all I’ve got now, you know.”

Tears blurred her vision. “You’re right,” she said shakily.

They reached the bottom and she wrapped her arms around him. He squeezed her and patted her on the back, making her grin. Mother would be pleased, she thought.

 

It was a crowd at the Hanged Man that night. Gamlen had refused to leave her, and she found she didn’t mind so much. He had surprisingly funny stories about half the usual patrons.

She caught a glimpse of Alistair at the foot of the stairs, and she had to wave him over. “This is my uncle, Gamlen. Uncle, I’d like you to meet Alistair.”

“I think I’ve seen you around,” Gamlen said slowly.

He shrugged sheepishly. “I, uh… I used to spend a lot of time in that corner.” He sat down beside Hawke and she squeezed his leg.

“If it weren’t for Alistair, I’d probably still be wandering around the estate, piss-drunk and half-starved.”

Gamlen’s eyes widened. “I don’t… I didn’t…” He ran a hand through his hair and turned to Alistair. “Thank you. My sister would thank you, if she could.”

“I really don’t think I did -”

“Oh stop being modest,” she teased, shoving his shoulder. “Let’s see if we can’t get something to eat.” She waved to Norah.

 

They ate and drank and complained about Kirkwall for a while, until Gamlen patted Hawke on the back and took his leave.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said solemnly.

She nodded. The funeral was in two days.

“I didn’t think you two were close,” Alistair said after he was gone.

Blinking back tears, she smiled. “We haven’t been. But I think we’ll at least be closer than we were.”

“Does that mean I need to worry about having his approval?”

“It’s my approval you have to worry about, your highness.” Varric held out his hand. “Varric Tethras, at your service.”

“Apparently you already know who I am,” Alistair said with a grimace. “You’re… not gonna keep calling me that, are you?”

“Depends,” Varric said, sitting across from them. “Would you prefer Ser Kissyface?”

 

 

 


	16. Laid to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catching glimpses of the past on the day of the funeral.

Hawke caught a glimpse of Alistair’s reflection while she fixed her hair. “Are you sure you want to -”

“Gwenyth,” Alistair sighed, coming up behind her and touching her shoulder. “It’s your mother’s funeral. Of course I want to be there. I don’t care if people talk.”

They had already discussed it - how hiding out in Lowtown was easy, but making Hightown appearances was a sure way to draw attention, and soon people would figure out who he was. Turning to him, she slid her arms around his waist and pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Do you know how wonderful you are?”

“Hmm… I’ve got my suspicions, but you should probably keep reminding me.” He brushed a rebellious curl back from her face. “You look lovely.”

She gave him a sad smile. Since her mourning robes didn’t survive the warehouse fire, she made the painful decision to wear her mother’s black dress. It seemed only fitting that the garment should see one more memorial for one more Hawke whose body was already gone to ash. The dress fit a bit snug in the hips; if not for all those days spent not eating, it likely wouldn’t fit at all.

“Mistress?” Orana stood in the doorway, looking at her toes. “Your uncle is here.” The girl clearly still felt guilty for refusing to attend the funeral.

Hawke had tried her best to assure her that she understood - Tevinter customs still hung heavily around Orana’s neck; she would never feel comfortable in the same Chantry as Kirkwall’s nobility - but to no avail. She touched the girl’s arm as she passed. “Thank you, dear,” she said gently.

Gamlen stood at the foot of the stairs. Hawke stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out what had changed. Her eyes lit up. “Gamlen, you shaved!”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make a fuss," he growled.

Grinning, she kissed his cheek. "I wouldn't dream of it."

The three of them made their way to the Chantry, feeling like everyone in Hightown was staring. Inside the door, Hawke turned to Alistair. He pressed a furtive kiss to her knuckles, and she and Gamlen took their place near the Revered Mother.

Casting furtive glances over her shoulder, she saw her friends,all looking extraordinarily out of place among the who’s who of Hightown. Anders entered, his shoulders rounded as if he was trying to shrink out of sight. She bit back a smile.

“Messere Hawke,” a warm brogue greeted her.

She let a sliver of smile slip as she turned to him. “Brother Sebastian.”

He clasped her hands. “Maker watch over you, my friend.”

Her smile grew strained. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

The Revered Mother began speaking, and Hawke didn’t even try to pay attention. She was thinking about her father’s funeral.

 

Mother had kind of...drifted away the day father died. At the funeral she just sat, weeping, eyes glazed, unresponsive, as people who really hardly knew them expressed their condolences.

A grizzled old woman had laid a heavy hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “You’ll have to take care of the family now, Gwenyth.”

She had nodded solemnly, already understanding this to be true, but Carver had shot her a dark look that she didn’t understand until later.

She was sitting in father’s hammock, watching the sunset, when he came up behind her.

“I can take care of the family.”

He was her height by then, eyes raw from tears shed in secret, hands clenched so tightly his shoulders shook.

It hurt. Just looking at him hurt. “Alright, Carver,” she said tiredly.

He hit her. She’d kind of seen it coming and she didn’t try to stop him. He backhanded her with enough force to send her stumbling backwards, enough force to draw a trickle of blood from her lip.

She stared at him, one hand pressed to her throbbing cheek, feeling like their entire future hung on whatever she said next. “Will you sit with me?”

And by some miracle, he had. And Bethany had come later and joined them, and there they sat until long after the sun had gone down.

 

Tears coursed down her cheeks and she looked down to find a hand holding hers tightly. She squeezed her uncle’s fingers and gave him a grateful smile.

 

The worst part was the line of people expressing their condolences. She did her best to be courteous and gracious even as she wondered how many of them knew her mother as well as they were pretending to.

Isabela came to her, remarkably...clothed.

“Wow,” Hawke said with a half-grin.

“Anything for you, sweet thing,” she replied sweetly, kissing her cheek. She seemed to find something amusing about Gamlen’s expression. “No kiss for you,” she said teasingly, “but I am sorry about your sister.” The sway in her hips as she walked away did not go unnoticed.

Merrill’s eyes were red and watery when she greeted her. “Oh Hawke, I’m so sorry.”

She gave the girl a gentle squeeze around her shoulders. “Thank you, dear.”

“I’m sorry to you too, Messere,” she said, and to Gamlen’s great surprise she threw her arms around his neck.

He patted her back awkwardly. “I… thank you, young lady.”

Hawke saw Aveline approaching and something coiled tightly inside her.

“Hawke, I am so sorry.”

“You should be,” she said quietly.

Aveline’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You heard me, Guard Captain.”

“Hawke, I don’t -”

Hawke’s voice rose steadily. “How many people did you let die? How many, since Ser Emeric came to you?”

“Hawke, we did everything we could to -”

“Did you really?” she demanded, almost shouting.

Varric appeared beside her. “Come on Hawke, I don’t -”

“My mother is dead because of you!” she shouted at Aveline.

“What is she talking about?” Gamlen demanded of Aveline.

Suddenly, Hawke’s anger dissipated and her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I just…”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Aveline offered, but the crease of her brow remained. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Alistair came and took her arm. “You...look a bit tired,” he said gently. “Why don’t I walk you home? I’ll have Orana fix you some tea.”

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. “That sounds lovely,” she sighed, wondering why she suddenly felt so tired. She turned to Gamlen.

“Go on, girl,” he said kindly. “Get some rest.” He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “You look after her,” he said to Alistair, his voice stern.

Hawke didn’t quite hear his response.

Back at the estate, Alistair sent Hawke upstairs with Orana to change.

“Are you alright, mistress?”

She traded the mourning dress for a loose cotton shift; her hips appreciated the freedom. “I’m fine, Orana. Just tired.” She gave her a wan smile. “I truly appreciate everything you do for me. You know that, don’t you?”

“You’re very kind, mistress.“

 

Hawke found Alistair in the kitchen, assembling a tea tray.

“Ah,” he greeted her brightly, “you’re just in time. Dining room?”

“Can we go out in the garden?”

He kissed her cheek. “We can go anywhere you like.”

“I’m sorry about… about how I acted earlier, I…” she shook her head as a dull anger simmered in her belly, as it had earlier. But earlier, that heat had been doused... as if by a cool breeze. Anders! She stopped in front of the door and turned on him. “That son of a bitch!”

His guilty expression confirmed her suspicions. “Gwenyth, please, I -”

“You?” Eyes narrowing, she crossed her arms over her chest. “What did you do?”

He sighed, his brow wrinkling in distress. “I just said ‘We should do something,’ that’s all. I didn’t mean - I didn’t mean anything specific! I just didn’t want you to do something you’d regret. And I certainly didn’t think he’d… well, it doesn’t seem right. And I’m sorry.”

She exhaled sharply, her nostrils flaring. “It’s not your fault,” she said curtly as she opened the garden door. “As for Anders… I’ll deal with that later.”

 

They sat on a bench and Hawke discovered that Alistair made a fine pot of tea. When it was finished, she took him by the hand and led him to the hammock. “Will you stay with me?” she asked quietly.

He brushed her curls back and kissed her forehead. “As long as you like, my love.” They carefully settled into the hammock, and he folded her in his arms. “Are you sure it’ll hold?”

“Pretty sure.”

He chuckled. “That’s wonderfully reassuring.”

“Well,” she mused, shifting bit by bit to look at him, “I fell out of it once, and I was mostly fine.”

“Again, you’re making this sound awfully questionable.”

“Does that mean you wouldn’t want to…?” she murmured suggestively.

He laughed. “Are you mad? Do you have a death wish or something?”

She grinned. “I do own a business called the Bone Pit. And I once pursued a murderer into monster-overrun ruins. And I went fortune-hunting down in the Deep Roads.”

“And they say being a Grey Warden was exciting,” he chuckled.

“What was it like?” she asked hesitantly.

He took a deep breath. “You have to understand, I didn’t exactly get the standard Grey Warden experience. I went from being the most newly initiated to suddenly being the senior Warden in Ferelden, as far as I knew.”

“As far as you knew?” she echoed.

“Yes - it turned out that Arl Howe had captured an Orlesian Warden, Riordan. It was his idea to offer Loghain the Joining.”

“The Hero of River Dane? Why would an Orlesian want to save him?”

“I guess he wasn’t much of a patriot. He said we needed all the Grey Wardens we could get.”jhun

Hawke bit her lip, holding back questions.

"The Joining was supposed to be an honor," he said bitterly. "Offering it to the man responsible for the death of so many Wardens is...a travesty. It's unconscionable."

"That's why you left?" she said softly.

"That man is _not_ my brother. The day he became a Warden was the day I ceased to be one.”

 


	17. The Red-Haired Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her reputation has its ups and downs.

Hawke charged into the clinic, and finding Anders tending to a sick child just added to her ire. The little girl thrashed on the cot as he tried to stabilize her arm. The mother paced restlessly, face tear-stained, twisting the hem of her apron.

With a sigh, Hawke dropped to her knees beside the cot. “It’s alright, love,” she cooed to the girl, smoothing the dark hair plastered to her sweat-soaked brow. “Will you hold still and let Anders help you?”

"Is he gonna hurt me?" the girl whimpered, her brown eyes wide and tear-filled.

"No, dear, he won't hurt you. He's here to help you." She took hold of the girl's free hand, stroking her knuckles. "You don't have to be afraid. You don't have to worry at all."

"But Papa said I was bad!"

Hawke's chest tightened. "Is that how you hurt your arm?" she choked out.

The little girl nodded. "I spilled my tea on one of Papa's rugs," she wept. "I hafta learn to be more careful, if Papa can't sell his rugs than we have nothing to eat!"

She looked up at the girl's mother.

“Messere, please, I -”

Hawke struggled to keep her voice low and level. “Is. It. True?”

The woman nodded, covering her face with her hands.

Taking a deep breath, Hawke turned her attention back to the little girl. “What’s your name, love?”

“Emmaline,” the girl sniffed.

“What a lovely name! How does your arm feel now, Emmaline?”

Her eyes widening in surprise, she waved her arm around. “It feels great!” She beamed at Anders. “Thank you messere!”

“Will you sit up for me so I can get a good look at it?” he asked kindly.

Hawke left Emmaline in Anders’ capable hands and cornered the girl’s mother. “Varren, right? The textile man in Hightown?”

“Messere, he’s not -”

“Please don’t tell me he’s ‘not always like that,’” she snapped.

The woman rubbed her creased forehead. “Messere, my girl needs to eat, and a roof over her head. Even if he’d let us leave, what work could I find? I don’t know nothing but helping him.”

Frowning, Hawke nodded. “Right. Alright.” She sighed heavily. “If he hurts her again, I want to know. Do you understand?”

Obstinance flashed in the woman’s tired brown eyes.

Hawke gritted her teeth. “You are her mother. It is your duty to keep her safe. You’re all she has to rely upon.”

Nodding, the woman hung her head. “Yes, messere.”

Hawke squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry this is happening.”

The woman shrugged. “It hasn’t always been like this,” she sniffled. “He’s-”

“Please don’t,” Hawke interrupted sharply. “Just look after Emmaline.”

As if on cue, the girl piped up. “Look, mama!” she called, waving her arm frantically. “All better!”

“Easy, girl!” Anders bent down, and suddenly Emmaline threw her arms around her neck and planted a wet kiss on his stubbled cheek.

“Thank you, messere!” she cheered, then bounded over to her mother. “Come, mama, let’s go!” And she practically dragged the woman out of the clinic.

Anders rubbed his cheek, grinning, but one look at Hawke’s face and his expression sobered.

“Hawke?”

She glared at him. “I’m still angry with you for what you did. But, for obvious reasons, that seems significantly less pressing right now.”

He sighed. “I did it for you, Hawke. A shouting match at the Chantry hardly seems like it’s in your best interest. And for what it’s worth, I’m on your side.”

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. “I hate it when you’re being reasonable,” she sighed, heading for the door.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

She looked back at him and shook her head. “No, I can manage this one.”

 

The bell over the door chimed as Hawke entered the textile shop. The proprietor looked up from his loom and smiled, getting to his feet.

"Well, well. Messere Hawke! It is an honor to have your patronage."

"You know who I am?" she asked, leaning against the counter.

"Of course I know who you are!” Varren smiled broadly. “Who hasn't heard the stories of the red-haired Hawke?"

"Good. That makes this much easier," she said with a cold smile. "Because if you ever hurt Emmaline - or your wife - again, you'll end up in one of those stories. One that ends with 'and they never found the body.' Is that clear?"

His eyes narrowed. "I know what you are," he spat. "I should report you to the Templars."

"Yes, because no one's ever tried that before," she snapped. "I was willing to spare your life because your wife wished it, but you're making me reconsider." Flexing her fingers, she wound a coil of ice around his throat.

"No!" he gasped. "My apologies, messere!"

"Promise me," she growled.

"I - I promise! No harm will come to my family again!"

She exhaled and the ice abruptly liquified, soaking his clothes. “Don’t think I’m not serious. Next time, there won’t be any talking.” Turning on her heel, she left him trembling.

 

Hawke found Alistair in his room at the Hanged Man, washing his clothes in the basin.

“Did you give him what-for?” he asked, drying his hands on his pants.

For a second she couldn’t figure out how he knew. Then she remembered that he meant Anders. “No,” she grumbled, throwing herself into a chair. “Not exactly.”

“Something must’ve happened. You’ve got that ‘something exciting and/or dangerous’ happened’ look.”

Her eyebrow shot up. “What are you talking about?”

He came and sat beside her. “Your cheeks are flushed, and you hold your head a certain way when you’ve been fighting.”

Hawke stared at him, soaking up the warmth of his amber gaze. “Why do you know that? I don’t even know that.”

“I told you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I watched you.”

She smiled, crinkling her nose. “You know that sounds -”

“Creepy. Yeah, I know. I just…” He groaned. “Come on, I’m terrible at this talking thing, you know that.” He leaned in for a kiss.

She pulled away, smiling, holding him back with a hand on his chest. “I want to hear whatever you have to say, Alistair,” she said softly. “Even if it’s all the wrong things.”

“I wanted to see if you were genuine. After… you know…”

“Regina?” she offered.

His nose wrinkled in distaste at the sound of her name. “Yeah. I took her at face value, and that was a mistake. But no matter who you were with, you never changed. You were always the same bright, vibrant, intimidating woman.”

“If Varric is to be believed, I’m practically the talk of Kirkwall. But I don’t think anyone’s ever paid that much attention to me.”

“It was worth it,” he murmured, cupping her cheek. “So very worth it.”

She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled him in for a kiss. “I’m quite glad you think so,” she whispered, nipping at his lower lip. Giving him a smoldering look, she got to her feet and slowly peeled off her robes, then shoved him down on the bed, pinning his wrists under her hands.

“Don’t touch,” she whispered, tracing his ear with the tip of her tongue.

“Oh Maker,” he groaned.

 

They lay panting in a tangle of bedding and clothes, Hawke’s head on Alistair’s chest, his fingers combing through her scarlet curls.

“You know,” she said hesitantly, “you could wash your clothes at the estate, if you’d like. Then you could hang them outside.”

“Don’t you think that’d be a little conspicuous? Me hauling a pack to your house every fortnight?”

She propped herself up on her elbow, her hand on his chest. “More conspicuous than all those early morning walks home with my hair a mess?”

“With your reputation, I’m sure everyone assumed you were just coming home from some wild adventure.”

Chuckling, she leaned in to kiss him. “Mmm, they’d be right about that.”

“Were you gonna tell me what had you in battle mode earlier?”

She frowned. “When I got to the clinic, Anders was tending to a little girl with an injured arm. Her father did it. So I went to his shop and told him what would happen if he did it again.” She gave him a strained smile. “A reputation like mine has to be worth something, right?”

He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “You really are an incredible woman, do you know that?”

“That’s what they tell me.” She sighed. “I have to go, though. I have piles of work awaiting me at home.” Biting her lip, she ran her fingertips down his chest. “Will I see you later?”

He kissed her nose. “You ask that like I’m even capable of telling you no.”

 

On her way out of the Hanged Man, Hawke bumped into Varric.

Shaking his head, he laughed. “You really need to start wearing a hood, or a scarf, or… shit, Hawke, even a helmet would be less ostentatious than what you’ve got going on.”

She tried to tamp down the cloud of unruly curls. “Don’t suppose you can help out to that end?”

“Absolutely not. I love it when people see you like that. It fuels the rumors.”

“Which rumors?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, I love all rumors equally. Hey, are you on your way home?”

“No, Varric,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I thought I’d go pay a visit to the Viscount in my current state.” She tried to bite back a grin and failed.

“I only ask because Isabela was looking for you, and I told her to try there.”

She crossed her arms. “I thought you knew everything that went on within these walls.”

“Oh, I knew you were here. I just thought you could do without an interruption from our dear Rivaini.”

“You truly are a prince among men, Varric. I’d better go see what trouble she’s gotten herself into.”

 

Hawke walked through the front door of her estate and into a shouting match between Bela and Aveline, of all people.

“-who’s the father?” Aveline sneered.

“Oh, you little -” Isabela raised her hand and Hawke darted forward to interrupt.

“Are there any good seats left?”

Aveline charged up to her. “Hawke, I need your help. The Arishok is sheltering two fugitives who have… ‘converted’ to the Qun. He must be convinced to release them. Sister Petrice has already sown enough fear of the Qunari. If people start to think he’s above the law -”

“I’m going to die!” Isabela shouted. “There. Got your attention? Real problem.”

Hawke shook her head. “We’ve got ‘Arishok’ and ‘die.’ What’s all this about?” She held up a hand. “One at a time, please?” She looked at Isabela.

“Remember the relic - the one that Castillon’s going to kill me over? I’ve sort of found it - in the hands of a man called Wall-Eyed Sam. I need you to help me get it back.”

“Isabela,” Aveline growled, “I’m trying to prevent a riot from breaking out!”

“Well…” She dug the toe of her boot into the rug. “Maybe it’s connected.”

“What?” Hawke and Aveline demanded in unison.

She shrugged sheepishly. “I’m just saying…”

“Shit,” Hawke exhaled sharply.

“They’re making the exchange tonight,” Isabela said, “at a foundry in Lowtown.”

Hawke’s stomach rolled. “It gets better and better.”

“Things won’t hold at the compound forever,” Aveline warned. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Hawke.”

“Yeah,” she gulped. “So do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna thank all of you for sticking with us this long! I think the end is near, but I've got some big plans.
> 
> Sorry I'm late! Been a hectic couple of weeks.


	18. On The Brink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years without a Viscount has the city - and Hawke - on edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this one extra-long because I'm at the point where I can't avoid rehashing a lot of in-game stuff. I hope you can bear with me.

Hawke could not recall the events that had earned her the title of Champion. The last thing she remembered was the ambush at the Qunari compound. The riots, the death of the Viscount, the near-fatal duel with the Arishok, all was lost in a haze that, even years later, hadn't cleared.

Alistair remembered. He had arrived at the estate just as Anders and Aveline were hauling her, bleeding and broken, from the Keep. The image seemed never to leave him.

 

"Gwenyth!"

She awoke with a start and turned to him, fumbling for his hand in the dark. "I'm here, love. It's alright, I'm here."

Sweat-soaked and shaking, he gripped her hand tightly. "Light," he whispered desperately. "I need - let me see you."

She ignited the lamp beside the bed. As soft light spilled across the room, he cupped her face in his hands, his touch rough, frenzied. He pushed her hair back, stroked her cheekbones, pressed his clammy forehead to hers.

She covered his hands with her own. "I'm alright, Alistair. I'm fine." Pulling him into her embrace, she rubbed the gooseflesh out of his arms. "I thought we’d seen the last of these," she said softly.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against her neck.

She kissed his temple. "Don't be daft.” But it had been three years since her brush with death, and the sudden recurrence of this old nightmare unsettled her. She lay awake long after Alistair’s breathing had grown deep and steady, wondering what he was looking for when he searched her face like that.

 

Hawke awoke to the somewhat furtive clank of armor. Rolling over, she smiled at the sight of Alistair struggling to slip quietly into his plate. “Do you need a hand?” she yawned.

“Shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She wriggled out from under the covers and helped him with his buckles. “Hold still,” she admonished.

“I’m trying,” he mumbled. “But you’re all… well, you know.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Should I cover up?”

“No! By all means, no. I’ll behave.” He forced his gaze up to the ceiling. “Big plans for the day?”

“I’ve got to see Sol at some point.”

“Be careful,” he said seriously.

“I know.” She pressed her lips into a thin line. She hated going to the Gallows almost as much as he hated her going. Meredith grew steadily less predictable and the notion that Hawke might one day find herself unable to leave seemed all too plausible sometimes. Pressing her hand over the Kirkwall insignia on his breastplate, she kissed him thoroughly, shivering pleasantly as his gauntleted hand settled ever so gently on her hip. “You be careful, guardsman.”

“Always,” he assured her.

 

But she didn’t need to go all the way to the Gallows to find trouble today. Orsino and Meredith were causing a scene before the stairs of the Keep. Just as she feared, her arrival prompted whispers and the crowd parted before her, and Orsino jumped at the chance to drag her into it.

Hawke treaded a careful line between the two - Meredith’s accusations of treason, Orsino’s attempts to incite rebellion - but it was the Knight-Commander who crossed that line.

“How well did you guard your own mother? Did she not die at a blood mage’s hand?”

Hawke’s every muscle wound tight, the blood roaring in her ears. “Why don’t you just stab me in the back while you’re at it?” she growled through clenched teeth.

“Cold corpses speak louder than abstract freedoms, do they not?” Meredith retorted. “As long as that’s true, Kirkwall needs its templars more than it needs a new ruler.”

“And when will that end?” the First Enchanter demanded. “When will you stop seeing evil in every corner?”

“When it's no longer there,” Meredith declared.

Her self-righteous tone gave Hawke chills. If there was ever a time when the Knight-Commander could be reasoned with, those days were long over. Their bickering resumed until Hawke’s anger boiled over. “The First Enchanter’s right,” she interjected coldly. “You should not be ruling Kirkwall.”

“And yet I shall continue until such a time as the city is safe.”

“Do you see?” Orsino cried. “She is incapable of reason!”

She ignored the man’s childish bleating. “Sorry to break it to you, Meredith, but I think you’re wrong.”

“Face the truth, Knight-Commander,” the First Enchanter sneered. “You are done.”

Meredith squared her shoulders. “That is for me to decide - no one else!"

“My my. Such a terrible commotion.”

It took significant effort on Hawke's part not to roll her eyes at the Grand Cleric's arrival.

After dispatching Meredith and Orsino like the petulant children they were behaving as, Elthina turned to her. "You have my thanks for stepping in, Champion. If you had not..."

She shrugged. She had little interest in the Grand Cleric’s praise. "Short of putting those two in cells, I doubt anything could keep them from each other."

"Sadly true." Elthina turned her attention to the crowd. "Good people, return to your homes. This will not be solved today."

Curious as to when the Grand Cleric thought the matter would be solved, Hawke elected to bite her tongue and let the old woman go.

 

Being the Champion meant never paying for her own drinks, a perk Hawke enjoyed perhaps too frequently. She carried her pint up to Varric's suite, giving a cursory knock before letting herself in.

"Hawke! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Just looking for a friendly face," she said, her voice strained as she eased into a chair.

Varric smiled sympathetically, but said nothing. She loved that about him. He never said "How are you feeling, Hawke?" and she never had to say "Like my spine is full of broken glass, thanks."

"What's the word, Varric?"

"Oh, you know. A vacuum of power. Troubles brewing. I think the city thrives on crisis."

"Don't I know it? I literally can’t step out my front door without getting caught between Meredith and Orsino." Her eyes narrowed as she stared down her glass. "That bitch brought up my mother in front of half the damned city."

"So I guess she's through playing nice."

She sighed heavily. “It’s getting worse. Everything’s getting worse. I don’t know what to do.”

“I didn’t know it was your job to fix it,” he said, raising a brow.

She glared at him.

“You’re right. That’s what champions do.”

She pressed her fingertips into the small of her back. “Have you seen Anders lately?”

He shook his head. “The clinic is empty more often than not these days.”

“Figures,” she muttered. “If you do see him, will you tie him to a chair or something? I could use his help.”

He chuckled. “I may have to delegate that one to Isabela.” He sat across from her and smiled. “How’s your guardsman?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “He had another one of those nightmares last night.” She studied him carefully for any indication that he knew something she didn’t, but if he did, he hid it well.

“You still think we’re all keeping some horrific secret, don’t you?”

A tired smile broke across her face. “You know, I think there was a time I thought it was creepy, the way you can read my mind. I guess you’ve grown on me.”

“Well here’s another insight - you’re tired. Have you thought about getting out of town for a little while?”

Running a hand through her hair, she drained her tankard. “With everything that’s going on -”

“Hawke,” Varric interrupted sternly. “You’re no good to anyone if you let yourself burn out. You don’t have to go far, you know. Book one of those quaint little cottages out on the coast. Walk around naked with no servants to scandalize.”

It was Hawke’s turn to laugh. “Well, I know by now there’s no sense in arguing with you. I suppose I’ll pay a visit to Aveline, see if I can bargain for some time off for Alistair.” Standing, she looked at Varric fondly. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you, Varric.”

He raised his flask. “Here’s to never finding out,” he said, chasing the words with whisky.

 

“How’s my favorite Guard Captain?” Hawke called, striding into Aveline’s office.

“Not bad for being dead the last seven years.”

Hawke stopped short, her brows furrowed.

“I got word last week. They only just sorted all the casualties of Ostagar. The queen has offered to reinstate the commission of any surviving officers who will return to Ferelden.”

She kept her face impassive. “And?”

“And what?”

Her shoulders tightened. “Does it matter? I thought you said you were sworn to Cailan.”

“Regardless of who has the throne, I served Ferelden. The country survived.”

“What’s your decision?”

“It’s been a strange time here in Kirkwall. Did Carver ever tell you what happened at Ostagar?”

“I know that the battle hinged upon backup that never came.”

“That tower lit up, but the fighting continued.” Her forehead creased. “It was the oddest feeling. Hope, answered with… nothing.” She met her eyes. “I don’t like the thought of going out with a whimper, Hawke. I thank you for Donnic, but what else is here for me? More doubt from you?”

The words stung. “Do you want my permission?” she challenged. “If you’ve already given up, take responsibility!”

“Who are you to talk about responsibility?” She took a step towards Hawke. “You’re an apostate! You stumbled into being Champion. Time and again, I have tried to keep people safe, and time and again, they have been taken! I know where the fault lies. I will not be judged a coward by anyone!”

“You don’t have the darkspawn as an excuse this time!” Hawke taunted.

Aveline’s eyes flashed. “I would brave anything for my guards!”

“Except your wounded pride! How many should die while you flee that?”

Aveline hit her like a woman-shaped battering ram, and they both tumbled to the floor. Hawke’s tongue caught between her teeth and she tasted blood, barely getting her hands up in time to block the barrage of blows. The fall had somehow loosened the knot in her chest, and she found it easy to refrain from using magic, instead letting Aveline work out her own issues against her arms and ribs. The swings decreased in force until Aveline finally let her up. She stumbled to her feet, laughing. “That’s not someone who wants to walk away.”

“You are such a bitch,” Aveline growled.

“But you feel better, don’t you?”

It was her turn to laugh. “I always knew there was a limit to what I would take from you. I never thought I’d be grateful to be pushed past it.”

Hawke bit her lip. “Grateful enough to grant me a favor?” she asked hopefully.

“Unbelievable! The nerve of you, Hawke, I swear. What do you want?”

“I was hoping you could spare Alistair for a few days. Varric’s ordered me to slip away for a bit. I think he thinks I’m going mad.”

“The prospect of a mad Hawke in Kirkwall is more than I can bear. I’ll tweak next week’s patrol schedule - you can have him in two days. Think you can stay sane for that long?”

“I’m sure I’ll manage. Thank you, Aveline.” She put a hand on her arm. “I mean that.”

Aveline patted her hand. “I know.”

 

Hugo announced Alistair’s return, as he usually did. Hawke came downstairs to see him kneeling on the rug, butting heads with the Mabari. She laughed. “Alright, you two. Where’s my kiss?”

Hugo turned to the sound of her voice.

“Oh no you don’t!” Alistair cried, clamboring over the hound. He practically tumbled into her, pinning her against the wall.

She slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him, stretching up on her tiptoes to press the whole of her body against him. “Come on,” she whispered as his lips trailed along her jaw. “Dinner’s waiting.”

“Well, we can’t have that!” He gathered her, squealing, into his arms and carried her up the stairs.

“How was work?” she asked, slipping her arms around his neck.

“Oh, you know. A lot of complaining nobles. How was your day?”

She perched on the edge of the bed and watched him work his way out of his armor. “Oh, you know. Varric said Kirkwall thrives on crisis.” She loved the way his shirt clung to his back after a long day in armor. “So, I thought we could get out of the city for a few days.”

He paused, his shirt halfway over his head. “What?”

She couldn’t resist any longer. Running her hands up his sides, she eased his shirt off and trailed her fingers down his back. “I’ve made arrangements for a cottage out on the coast, and Aveline’s promised to take you out of rotation for a few days.”

He spun around and caught her wrist, pulling her against him. “Really?”

She hummed assent against his lips. “Just you and me and the sound of gulls…”

One hand moved to the closures along the front of her robes. “That sounds incredible.”

“Did you forget about dinner?”

Sliding two fingers under her chin, he tilted her head back to look into her eyes. “I don’t mind cold pheasant if you don’t,” he whispered.

“I don’t mind at all.”

 

 


	19. Sand Castles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Alistair get away for a few days.

“Don’t stop!” Hawke begged, her voice muffled by the pillow.

“It hurts. I can tell.”

“It doesn’t -”

“Gwenyth,” he growled.

She sighed, exasperated. “It only hurts because you won’t move past the pain. Push a little harder.”

Alistair shifted his weight on her. “What if I… what if I break something?”

She craned her neck to look at him over her shoulder. “You won’t,” she assured him.

He dug in with both thumbs and the knot under her shoulder blade gave way, eliciting an unladylike grunt from her.

“Oh Maker that feels so much better,” she sighed into the pillow.

He rolled off of her and she sat up, stretching her arm, rolling her shoulder. “Mmm. You are amazing, do you know that?”

Cupping her cheek, he gave her a gentle but lingering kiss. “Well, good, because you deserve nothing less.” And something flickered in his eyes.

They’d been at the cottage for two days, but instead of relaxing he seemed increasingly nervous. “Is there something wrong?” she asked.

He laughed - an undeniably nervous laugh - and shook his head. "What? No! I'm here. With you. What could be wrong?"

What, indeed?

 

They packed a picnic and had lunch down at the shore. The water was too cold for swimming, but Alistair rolled up his trousers and they waded in until the hem of Hawke's simple frock danced in the current. They stood hand in hand, watching the gulls fly overhead.

"I haven't done this since I was a child," she said in a faraway voice. "We spent a week at the coast, the five of us. The twins made this incredible sand castle. Carver built it up, Bethany did all the fine details..." She shook her head, a sad smile on her lips. "Mother wept when the tide came in."

"I'm sorry," Alistair said softly, kissing her fingers. "I can't imagine what it must be like."

She looked at him quizzically. "What what's like?"

They headed back to their blanket.

"Being the last of your line."

"You 'can't imagine'?" she said incredulously, leaning back on her elbows. "You know exactly what it's like."

Alistair snorted. "Hardly. You have to remember that I carried the Theirin name briefly - and against my will." Reaching over, he entwined his fingers with hers. "Don't get me wrong, I'm sure Cailan was a great man. And Maric... well, Maric was a great many things. But none of that had anything to do with me. There's more to family than names and bloodlines."

She glanced over at him, but he was looking out at the water, a self-conscious expression on his handsome face. She dragged her gaze away from him and squeezed his hand. "I understand."

"Good," he said, "because I thought you might, uh, share your name. With me."

Hawke's heart leapt into her throat. Biting her lip, she slowly turned to look at him.

Licking his lips nervously, he pulled her upright, taking her hand in both of his. "Gwenyth, I know I’ve nothing to offer you. No home, no family, no money. But I will spend every day by your side, if you'll have me." He pressed a warm wood ring into her palm, watching her with a mix of hope and fear.

She turned the ring over in her hand. It was remarkable, a true thing of beauty. She closed her fingers over it. "Alistair," she choked out, before throwing her arms around his neck. She could feel his heartbeat, fast and furious as her own, as she kissed him until they were both breathless.

"Is that a yes?" he panted, and she laughed, cupping the back of his head to press his forehead against hers.

"Yes," she sighed, slipping the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly. "Of course it's a yes." She kissed him again - harder this time, her fingertips digging into his bare shoulders, and he scooped her up and staggered to his feet.

"You think you can carry me all the way back to the cottage?" she laughed.

“What, you think I can’t?”

He made it as far as the flagstone steps before staggering a little and setting her on her feet. He headed for the door, but she caught him by the trousers and tugged him over to one of the chairs on the front porch.

“What are you -”

She pressed a finger to his lips. “Look,” she whispered, gesturing at the shoreline. The sun blazed gold across the water, and a soft breeze tugged at their clothes. “Pity to waste the view, don’t you think?”

“That’s not the view I’m worried about,” he growled, pulling her against him.

Hawke pointed out the trees flanking the cottage, obscuring them from the view of any neighbors. When he turned his head, she kissed his neck. “No one’s going to see us,” she whispered, catching his earlobe between her teeth. She smiled with satisfaction when his breath caught in his throat.

“Is there any point to arguing with you?” he sighed, running his hands down her sides.

“None whatsoever,” she murmured against his skin. Capturing his gaze through her lashes, she slid her hands down his bare chest and stomach and slid his pants down, running her thumbs over his hips. Pleased to see how much he wanted her, she forced him back a step and he half fell, half sat in the chair.

Catching her damp skirt, he tugged her to him and ran his hands up the backs of her thighs, grinning wickedly at the sigh that escaped her lips.

She rested her hands on his shoulders, shivering at his touch, as he eased her smalls down and cupped her ass, his eyes never leaving hers. She straddled him, slipping one arm around his neck as she guided him to her, holding her breath as he filled her inch by inch.

When he was fully sheathed inside her, they were still for a moment. She drank him in - his softly parted lips, his fine, strong jaw, the smile lines around his warm amber eyes. Her heart swelled, beating against the bars of its cage.

He brushed her hair back from her face, grazing her cheek with his thumb. “I love you, Gwenyth,” he murmured.

“Oh,” she breathed, her throat tightening, “I love you so.”

He held her tightly as she rocked against him, the intensity of his gaze dizzying. She found his hand and laced her fingers with his behind her back, her other hand gripping his shoulder.

He moved his free hand under her dress, to her hip, his fingertips digging into her flesh as he urged her onward, quickening her pace. As if he could read her mind, he moved forward on the chair; wrapping her legs around his waist, she angled her hips just right.

"Alistair!" she gasped.

"Yes," he whispered encouragingly, shifting under her just so -

She bit down to stifle a ragged cry as her nails dug into his shoulder.

"Maker!" he panted, his voice rough, and that was all it took.

Grabbing him by the hair, she cried out into his mouth as she came. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pinning her against him, and filled her with his release, making her cry out again.

Dizzy and breathless, Hawke nearly toppled off his lap. He held her firmly in place, resting his head against her shoulder. Curling her fingers in his hair, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

As the stars cleared from her vision, she took a moment to examine the ring. It bore a delicate carving, what looked like -

"Wings?" she asked softly.

He hummed against the column of her throat before lifting his head. "What else, for my Hawke?"

She tried to blink away her tears, but they spilled down her cheeks.

He wiped her cheek with his thumb. “Are you alright, love?”

She nodded and laid her head on his shoulder. “So very alright.”

 

They sprawled out on a blanket in front of the fireplace, drinking wine straight from the bottle.

"We could just stay here," she sighed.

He laid back and rested his head on her stomach. “You don’t mean that.”

“What?”

“Oh, Gwenyth.” He turned to look at her. “I’m surprised you’ve made it this long, leaving your city unattended.”

She turned away, blushing.

Alistair ran the back of his hand down her arm. "Oh, don't do that. I didn't mean it in a bad way."

She shook her head. "I know. I just..."

"You couldn't save Lothering," he reminded her.

"I couldn't." She finally looked at him, gently combing her fingers through his hair. "Do you want to leave?"

"Leave Kirkwall?" He sighed. "Sometimes. But Maker knows, I've already done my share of running away. No, I'm with you. Till the end."

She laughed. "Even though I have no idea what I'm supposed to do?"

"Even though. You'll know when the time comes, Gwenyth. You always do."

She pulled him close for a kiss, and when she found herself pinned under his familiar, comforting weight, it felt like coming home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry-not-sorry for that opening. I have no excuses. I'm almost thirteen!


	20. Ashes, Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke faces a new nightmare.

No sooner did they reach the Hightown market than an unmistakable voice started shouting her name.

“Hawke! Messere Hawke!” Hubert motioned for her frantically. Maker forbid the man step away from his stall for half a minute. “Catastrophe has struck!” he wailed as she approached. “We are ruined - ruined!!!”

“It’s always something,” she sighed, giving Alistair’s hand a quick squeeze. “Sorry, darling. I’ll make it quick.”

Hubert grabbed her arm as soon as she came within reach. “A cart came back from the Bone Pit, half-wrecked, with a dozen mangled bodies!”

An icy wave of horror crashed down over Hawke, drowning out all else. She felt a hand clamp around her other arm - Alistair’s - and it brought her back to reality. Hubert was going on about mages and horses.

“I’ll check it out,” she said tersely, pulling out of his sweaty grasp. She headed home to change.

Somehow Alistair could hardly keep up with her. “You’re not going alone.”

“It’s not safe,” she snapped.

“Yes I know, which is why you’re not going alone.”

She stopped and faced him. Something in the set of his jaw told her that she wasn’t winning this one. “Alright,” she muttered, setting off again.

“Don’t you think we’d be better off with a little help?”

"Are you trying to stall?" she snapped as they entered the estate. Hugo started to approach her, but she gave him a look and he laid down with a quiet huff of dejection.

"I'm trying to keep you from getting killed!" Alistair argued, chasing her up the stairs. "Whatever's happened at the mine, I'm sure taking a few minutes more to get Varric won't make much difference."

A lump formed in her throat. "Yes," she croaked. "Alright, Hanged Man it is."

She pushed aside her Champion robes, wanting neither the attention nor the implication. Her fingers caught on her Tevinter battledress. The dark brocade hummed with power, threads of lyrium woven into the lining. She had never worn them out of respect for Fenris, even before…

She shook her head and put them on. "My magic will serve that which is best in me," she whispered, "not that which is most base."

Turning to Alistair, she was surprised to see him in the heavy mail he'd acquired the day of the riots. "I just thought -"

"Low profile. I know," she said with a small smile, feeling at once grateful and conflicted. She didn’t want him to come, didn’t want him to get hurt. But it didn’t matter. If she tried to leave, he’d chase her down. She owed him this, she supposed, even as the knot in the pit of her stomach wound tighter.

“You should wear that more often,” he said with a strained smile, admiring her exposed thighs over her tall boots and the flashes of skin that peeked out just above her hips.

“Anything for you, my love.” Her voice trembled.

 

By some miraculous coincidence, Varric and Isabela were playing cards at the Hanged Man. They both tensed at the sight of Hawke’s face.

“There’s trouble at the mine,” she said roughly, her throat parched, tight. “It sounds bad.”

“Bianca loves trouble,” Varric says cautiously, getting to his feet.

“You don’t have to -” Hawke began, but Bela cut her off.

“I think we do, sweet thing.”

That conflict - gratitude and fear, intensified. Hawke knew that Isabela felt beholden to her, after the business with the Arishok. “You nearly died for me,” Bela had told her once. “We won’t be square until I return the favor.”

Hawke shuddered and whispered a prayer to the Maker who had long since forsaken her. “Please, not today.”

 

It was like losing her mother all over again. Like losing Carver. Like Bethany.

Mangled bodies littered the area around the entrance to the mine; most of them not whole enough to be called bodies. Just piles of charred flesh, blackened bones. The men. Her men.

Hawke went numb, cold. Dropping to her knees, she emptied her stomach. Alistair tried to put his hand on her shoulder; she shoved him away. Snatching up a pickaxe, she charged down the path to the bottom of the quarry.

There were eggshells everywhere, but no sign of the monster that had slaughtered the men - her men. Hawke’s hands trembled. She stalked through the quarry, kicking discarded bits of shell, until she found what she needed.

The egg was nearly as tall as her, the leathery and vaguely pearlescent surface warm under her touch. Her fingers clenched, her knuckles pressed against the egg, and she drew her staff with the other hand.

Hawke jammed the tip of her staff into the egg, freezing it from the inside out. “Show yourself, you bitch!” she screamed, and swung the pickaxe, shattering the egg - and the spawn within - into a thousand shards of ice. She left the tool, wedged deep in the ice.

The smell arrived first - sulphur and death. Then came the hot wind and the shrill cry that made Hawke want to clap her hands over her ears. Gripping her staff in both hands, she braced for the attack.

The beast came out of the north, heading straight for her. Hawke fired an icy blast at one wing and the dragon faltered, veered left, and came down with enough force to shake the earth, staggering the four of them.

Hawke saw Alistair running straight for it, and she darted forward to try and stun the creature, giving him time to strike.

“You should stay back!” he shouted.

Isabela had thoughts on the matter as well. “We should run!”

“Go!” Hawke yelled, swinging her staff overhead. “I’ll buy you time to get away!”

“I meant we should ALL run!”

“Not a chance,” Hawke muttered.

The three of them fanned out, struggling to keep distance between each other while still keeping the dragon confused.

Hawke twirled, spun, and darted around the dragon, bombarding it with ice, draining health when she could get close enough. She struggled to have eyes everywhere at once, watching not just the creature, but all three of her companions. Varric looked exhausted already, trying to keep on the move between shots, but the three of them were doing a pretty good job of holding the beast’s attention.

Their combined effort drove the dragon up to an outcropping, out of even Bianca’s reach. The beast’s offspring swarmed out of nearby caves to keep them occupied, giving Hawke barely enough time to choke down more lyrium.

Alistair carved a path through the onslaught to fight at her back.

It made her sick to her stomach to see his face streaked with gore. “You shouldn’t have come,” she panted, blasting a hole through an approaching drake.

“Well, I did.”

Isabela looked to be holding up better than any of them - did she never get tired? Hawke saw the high dragon turn in that direction. “Bela, move!” she screamed.

Isabela vaulted forward, then rolled right, neatly evading the fireball. She flashed Hawke a wink, then spun and sank both blades into a dragonling.

They were still fighting the young when the mother swooped down upon them again. She looked to be aiming at Varric, so Hawke dove forward, sliding on her knees to cast a shield over him.

“Let’s live through this so I can thank you,” he called over to her, firing off another volley of bolts.

As she raced back to join Alistair and Isabela, she marked their sluggish movements, the look of exhaustion on their faces. Fear gripped her throat.

“I need you two to hold out just a little longer,” she shouted to them.

“Sorry, did it look like I was napping?” Isabela quipped.

“Without me,” Hawke added. “And when I give the signal, I need you both to run as fast as you can in opposite directions. Can you hold her for just a few minutes?”

“Do you need me to cover you?” Alistair called, his brows knit.

Hawke shook her head. “Stay there. Keep her busy!” She moved as fast and as far as she dared, afraid to draw the dragon’s attention. She quaffed another vial of lyrium, took a deep centering breath, and shut her eyes. Raising her hands above her head, she forced her focus inward, summoning all her magical ability; she couldn’t afford worry or fear.

When her entire body hummed with power, she flexed her fingers, releasing that energy into the sky. She opened her eyes; the others were still holding their own.

“NOW!” she screamed. Alistair and Isabela scattered, Bela barely dodging the dragon’s tail as it whipped around, drawn to the sound of Hawke’s voice. She let it take a step or two in her direction before she swung her hands down.

As if she had torn a hole in the sky itself, the creature found itself caught in a sudden deluge. The beast staggered in the downpour, confused and distressed.

Hawke brought her hands together, encasing the dragon in ice. Drained, she staggered and fell to her hands and knees, barely looking up in time to see Alistair shear the head off the frozen dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you didn't feel like you had to dredge through this. I had a request for a bit of action, and I gave it my best, but I felt very out of my depths on this one.


	21. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killing the dragon brought Hawke little comfort.

Health potions were distributed and wounds bandaged without a word from Hawke. The battle had left her weak, but her glare silenced anyone who even looked like they might comment on her shaking hands. Once everyone had been tended to, she took off, leaving the three of them to find the dragon's horde.

Clouds had gathered overhead, and when a fearsome thunderclap announced the impending storm, Hawke sat on a boulder at the mining camp and waited for the rain. She rested her head on her knees as the icy torrents washed away the carnage, a part of her wondering if the unseasonable cold was her doing. She hoped the others had found shelter in the quarry.

She didn't stick around to find out.

 

By the time Hawke made it home, the sun had set. She slipped quietly into the estate, where she was greeted by a worried Bodahn.

"Are you alright, messere?" He rushed to her, but she held up her hand.

"I'm fine," she said curtly. Unfortunately, she was obviously not fine; she was soaked through, shivering, unsteady on her feet.

"Begging your pardon, messere -"

"That's enough, Bodahn. Call it a night."

Her first stop was the kitchen, where she slumped against the larder door and devoured half a loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese. She washed it down with wine straight from the bottle, which she took with her to her room. There, she peeled off her wet clothes and roughly toweled herself dry.

The battered pack she’d brought from Lothering lay forgotten at the bottom of her armoire. She tucked a set of robes into the bottom, then a few changes of clothes - drab stuff that wouldn’t garner attention. Tucking the bag under the foot of the bed, just in case, she went and bolted the bedchamber door.

Instead of climbing into bed, she sank to the floor, her back against one bedpost, and hugged her knees to her chest. Even out of her wet clothes, she was quaking. When she shut her eyes, she could see Alistair, spattered with dragon's blood, barely dodging in time. Her throat tightened and tears burned in her eyes. She should have left him in the tavern where she found him.

 

Hawke awoke shivering on the floor. She stretched her aching back and went to the window. The sky was just starting to fade from black to gray.

Dressing in trim trousers and a fitted leather vest, she shouldered her pack and turned the bolt as quietly as she could. The estate was deserted, of course, everyone still asleep. Even Hugo didn't stir as she approached his rug by the fireplace.

She crouched down besides the hound. "Psst. Hugo," she whispered, patting his head.

He snorted, his eyes still closed.

"Come on, Hugo. We have to go."

He opened one eye, but when he saw her face he sat upright, blinking sleep away.

"Shh," she cautioned, putting a finger to her lips.

The Mabari made a soft, confused noise.

"We're leaving," she whispered. "I'll explain later."

The dog's sad expression as he looked around tightened the chains around her heart.

"You don't want to come?" Her voice cracked a little.

Hugo stood and nudged her hand with his head, then looked at the door.

"Thank you," she sighed, straightening.

Her hand was on the doorknob when a voice interrupted her.

"Did you leave a note, or did you plan to just disappear?"

Sighing, she rested her forehead against the door. "I don't want to do this, Alistair."

"If you mean talk to me, I gathered that much. If you mean sneak out like a thief in the night, well..."

She rolled so that her back was against the door. He sat on a bench along the wall, his forearms resting on his thighs. "You could have died today," she said, her voice rough.

"Oh please," he scoffed. "Like I've never fought a dragon before."

"Alistair, don't."

He got to his feet. "I'm sorry, Gwenyth, but that's not how this works. You made me a promise, remember? You don't get to steal away at the crack of dawn." He came towards her and she stepped away.

"Alistair, stop! Don't you get it? I'm a death sentence! Those miners - I told them it was safe. I told them I would keep them safe!" Hot tears spilled and she swiped at them with trembling hands.

"So you're just going to run away."

"You're going to lecture me on running away?" she snarled bitterly. "Oh, that's perfect."

He didn't even flinch. "As a matter of fact, it is perfect, because I know all about running away.” He braced himself against the wall with one hand, leaning in close to her so he could lower his voice. “You feel like you didn't do enough. You think that hurts? Try doing nothing!" His voice cracked. "Losses at the Battle of Denerim were devastating. I swore an oath to stop the Blight or die trying. And I have to live with that. I will always have to live with that." He stood before her, tears in his eyes, a weary expression on his face. "So If you want me to go," he choked out, "I'll go. But I can't let you abandon this city. I can't let you do that to yourself."

Her knees buckled and she slid down the door, hugging her knees to her chest. "Right, because I’m their bloody champion? I failed. I've failed everyone."

Alistair knelt beside her. "That isn't true. You know it isn't."

"Oh I do? Bethany. Carver. Mother. Viscount Dumar - and his son, for that matter."

"Do you remember that day? The Qunari would have slaughtered the entire city, if not for you. Not to mention what they'd have done to Isabela. Why do you think she’s so quick to risk her life for you, Gwenyth? She owes you. You earned that. You think the people of Kirkwall look to you because Meredith granted you a fancy title? They know you. They know what you've done for them. They know what you are."

“I’m a liar,” she croaked. “I come with empty promises and leave a trail of bodies in my wake.”

“You can’t shoulder the burden for every corpse in Thedas. People die every day. The world is full of dangers.”

She shook her head. “Those men trusted me. I told them it was safe, and they trusted me.”

“And how is this helping them now?” he asked gently.

“What are you talking about?” she snapped.

“Wallowing in guilt. Torturing yourself. Running away. What does any of that do for those men?”

“And what do you suggest I do for the dead?” she spat.

“I’m sure many of those miners had families.”

A fresh wave of guilt washed over her, and she put her hands over her face. “Oh, Maker,” she sobbed. The dam broke and it all came spilling out at once, all her grief and guilt and shame, until she was a limp, soggy ball of woe in Alistair’s arms.

When her sobs had given way to wet, hitching breaths, she pulled out of his embrace. “You’re right,” she sniffled.

“That does happen upon occasion. Try not to faint.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “I need to see to those families. I need to… I need to do better than this.” As she tried to get to her feet, a bolt of pain lanced through her back, driving her back to her knees.

Alistair grabbed her arm. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice strained. “I just -”

“I think you need to lie down,” he said sternly, helping her to her feet. “You’re not much use to anyone if you can’t even stand upright.” He didn’t even bother with the stairs, leading her to the guest bedroom. “Should I try to find Anders?”

“Maker, no,” she sighed as she eased face-down on the bed. “I just need this. Just for a little while.”

“I’m going to let Bodahn and Orana know you’re alright. I’ll just be a moment.”

“I’m fine, love. Don’t rush on my account.”

Brushing aside her hair, he kissed her cheek. "I'll just be a moment."

 

Hawke blinked against the sunlight streaming right into her face. Planting her hands under her shoulders, she pushed herself up into a blissfully back-stretching arch.

"Good morning, my love. How do you feel?"

She pushed back to sit on her heels. "Better, I suppose. How was the haul from the mine?"

"Quite good, actually." He came and sat on the edge of the bed. "Isabela took a dagger, Varric a pair of bracers, and the rest we brought back here for you to look over."

She could see it on his face, and it brought a small smile to her lips. "Did you find something you'd like?"

"There's a really nice set of gauntlets. Aurum, I think."

"You deserve it, Alistair," she said, putting her hand on his leg. "You did chop its bloody head off."

He snorted. "It wasn't exactly a challenge once you froze it solid. Which was phenomenal, by the way!" Excitement flash in his amber eyes. "I've never seen you in action before, you know. Absolutely dazzling."

Her cheeks grew warm. "I don't always work that hard," she demurred. "I just... I couldn't let that bitch kill anyone else."

He touched her shoulder gently.

"I know. I have more to offer than guilt." She got to her feet. "I'm selling whatever's left and giving my share to the families of the miners.”

“Mine as well,” he said.

She gave him a strained smile. “You don’t have to -”

“Gwenyth.” He took her hand. “What’s mine is yours, remember? That’s what I want.”

Lifting his hand to her face, she kissed his knuckles and pressed his palm to her cheek. “I’m not sure I deserve you.”

Pulling her into his arms, he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Deserve me? You saved me, my love. Were it not for you, I think I’d have drank myself to death by now.”

“Hey,” she chuckled, “you started all this, remember?”

He grinned and kissed her. “Alright, maybe I did.”

 

 


	22. A Heavy Burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke isn't the only one with baggage.

Hawke didn't argue when Alistair asked to help deliver the bad news. She understood that these were his countrymen too, that this would help assuage some of the guilt he still carried all these years later. They agreed to split up and speak to the widows one on one.

She was glad to have him to absorb some of the anger, the sorrow, the despair that the miners' widows would so rightfully heap upon them both.And it would save time. Still, she couldn’t help but feel as if it was cheating.

"I don't want your charity," one woman - one of the oldest - snapped.

Hawke blinked, surprised. "It's not... I wouldn't call it charity, serah.”

She flapped her hand. “Bah! Don’t ‘serah’ me like a bloody Marcher. Call me Marta.”

“My apologies. Marta. But your husband earned this money."

"And what about when it runs out? I don't need a handout, I need work. You got a nice place in Hightown, ain't ya? You could take me on."

"Oh," Hawke stuttered, "I, um, I'm already fully staffed." Her cheeks burned.

"Well ain't that something?" Marta studied her carefully, her chapped and reddened hands planted on her hips. "Go on then, girl. You done what you can for us. My Will wouldn’t have had no job at all, if not for the mine, and his end woulda likely come a great deal sooner.” She put a heavy hand on Hawke’s shoulder. "Don't let this weigh on you, girl. S'not your fault."

Tears threatened, and she was not about to let this woman console her, not today, not after -

“Thank you,” she choked out, and darted out the door.

Taking a few slow, deep breaths, she made her way through the last three visits without incident. She went to the Hanged Man, to find Alistair already waiting for her. To her utter shock, Anders was with him.

“Well hello, stranger,” she said, eyes wide. He looked… awful, really. Sunken cheeks, sallow skin, that endearingly ridiculous coat hanging off him.

“How are you, Hawke?”

“Tired,” she sighed, sitting down. Their eyes met and the weariness in his hurt her. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve been -”

“I know.” She gave him a tired smile. “And I’ve missed you.”

He smiled back.

She turned to Alistair. “How did it go?”

Squeezing her leg, he nodded. “It, uh… as well as can be expected, I guess. How about you?”

“The same. I need a drink. Or several. Where’s Varric?”

“Merchant’s Guild,” Anders said, his grimace communicating their absent friend’s displeasure.

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well, one of you needs to tell a joke or something.”

 

No one told any jokes, but there’s something to be said for being sad and tired with the people you love.

When it was time to go, Anders saw Hawke wince as she stood. “How long has it been hurting like that?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and shrugged.

He turned to Alistair, the question written on his face.

“She’s been doing that a lot lately.”

Glaring at him, she sighed. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Anders put his hand gently on her back. “Please, let me help.”

“Honestly, Anders, you don’t look like you have it in you.”

He squared his shoulders. “I take great offense to that! Come on. Come to the clinic.”

“You’re outnumbered, love,” Alistair pointed out. “We could always drag you there.”

She rolled her eyes. “Alright, fine. If that’s what it takes to shut the both of you up, let’s go.”

“You two go,” Alistair said. “I’ll go on ahead and have Orana draw you a bath.” He gave her a quick kiss, his hand resting lightly on her hip.

“I’ll be along soon,” she said with a smile.

 

The clinic had a musty, unused atmosphere that saddened Hawke.  
“I know,” Anders said, as if he could read her thoughts. “I should be here more often.” He laid a blanket out on one of the cots.

“It’s alright,” she assured him, slipping her dress off her shoulders and letting it bunch around her waist. “Refugees need you. Mages need you. You can’t help everyone all the time.” She stretched out on her stomach, pillowing her head on her arms.

He came and knelt at her side. His hands were warm and slick with soothing balm when he laid them upon her, and she sighed. “I hear you’re getting married,” he said.

“Mhmm,” she smiled, even though he couldn’t see it.

“I’m glad. He’s a good man, and absolutely over the moon for you.”

“He misses you too,” she said. Alistair and Anders had grown close while tending to her after the Arishok nearly killed her.

“I should try to come around more often,” he admitted.

“He’d like that.” She hesitated for only a second. “We both would.”

Anders didn’t respond, and she felt the cool tingle of healing magic. He couldn’t fully repair the damage to her spine, he had told her, but he could try to keep the pain under control.

Of course, she didn’t exactly go easy on her body.

“Sit up slowly,” he instructed.

She arched her back and sat back onto her heels, like he had taught her. Stretching, she smiled. “That feels pretty good.” She got to her feet and helped him up before slipping her dress back up. “How are you doing, Anders? Really.”

Sighing, he plopped down on the cot. “It’s getting worse,” he said, putting his head in his hands.

She wondered if he meant himself, or the Gallows. Or both. She sat down beside him. “I want to help.” She caught it when he lifted his head - that momentary flash of blue - and it hurt.

She could recall when Justice liked her, or respected her, or whatever it was he did. When he believed that they were on the same side. Now, she wasn’t doing enough. She could never do enough. It terrified her.

“If I think of something, you’ll be the first to know,” he said raggedly.

 

When Hawke emerged from the cellar entrance to the estate, Bodahn and Alistair were chatting by the fire. Both rose to greet her.

“Messere, I am so glad you’re home,” Bodahn said, and the relief in his voice put her on edge. “You’ve received a message from the Keep. It seemed important.”

She groaned, and Alistair put his arm around her. “Oh come on. Maybe they’re throwing you a party!”

“Maker forbid,” she growled.

“But there could be cake!”

She glared at him as she picked up the letter. Skimming it, she scoffed. “It’s from the Seneschal.”

“I thought the Seneschal hated you?”

Hawke grinned. “‘Serah Hawke. A foreign dignitary is visiting Kirkwall and has requested to speak with you. Please see yourself to the throne room first thing tomorrow morning.’” She affected Bran’s condescending tone. “‘Understand that you have somehow come to represent this city. I trust that you will behave accordingly.’” She looked up at Alistair. “Should I strive to paint an accurate picture of our fair city?”

He pulled her into his arms and nuzzled her neck. “Please don’t start a war.”

“Perish the thought, my love,” she laughed, stroking his hair. “We’ve got that wedding to plan first.”

“And you’ve got a bath waiting. How’s your back?”

“Better,” she confessed, heading to their room. “Wish I could say the same for Anders. He said he’d come around more often.”

“But you don’t believe him.”

She turned and smiled sadly. “No. I don’t.”

 

Alistair gently nudged Hawke awake in the morning. She grunted noncommittally and pulled the pillow over her head.

“Come on, love,” he said. “You’ve got an important meeting with a foreign dignitary, remember?”

She muttered a string of profanities into the pillow.

“I don’t think any of that was appropriate for diplomatic discourse.”

She pulled the pillow down so that he could see her glare. He brushed his lips against her forehead and she smiled. “Maybe I should spill a drink on them,” she teased, crawling out of bed.

“You really don’t know who it is?”

“Not the faintest idea,” she mumbled, perusing the contents of her armoire. “You did some politicking, didn’t you? What does one wear for a surprise visit with an unnamed figure from an unspecified nation?”

“I assumed you’d go with the obvious choice.”

“The Mantle?” She pulled out the official garment of Kirkwall’s Champion. “You don’t think it’s too pretentious?”

He shrugged. “I think it’s what Seneschal Bran would expect.”

She made a face. “Is that supposed to encourage, or discourage me?”

“Gwenyth.” He crossed to her and cupped her chin. “You could show up in a flour sack, barefoot, with your hair just like that, and you would still be the very picture of nobility.”

Hawke kissed him, running her hand up his bare chest. “You’re clearly biased, darling. And I love you for it.”

“Mmm, I love you too. Now get dressed. If it’s an Orlesian, they take punctuality very seriously. And if it’s an Antivan, don’t eat or drink anything. And -”

She laughed. “Alistair. I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” he said. “Want to walk with me?”

“What, and cause a scene in the streets of Hightown before breakfast?” She put one last pin in her hair and hoped it was enough. “Damn right I do.”

  
  


 

 

 


	23. Diplomatic Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke meets with a foreign dignitary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short. I ended up having almost an entire week of birthday plans.
> 
> I really, really enjoyed writing this.

The streets of Hightown teemed with activity already, and their passage did not go unnoticed.

“Everyone is staring,” Hawke whispered.

“Don’t be silly. That man has his back to - oh wait, he’s turning around.”

She jabbed him furtively with her elbow.

“Ow! I thought you wanted to cause a scene!”

“It’s never as much fun as I expect it to be,” she sighed. “I feel ridiculous.”

Alistair patted her hand. “If it’s any comfort, parading down the street with the Champion of Kirkwall on my arm doesn’t exactly help me maintain a low profile.”

She looked up at him, and his smile brought a sigh of relief.

His forehead creased. “What’s wrong?”

“I just… I know you came to Kirkwall to lay low, and I haven’t exactly -”

“Oh, don’t you dare,” he said, turning her to face him. “What, are you going to apologize for saving the city from the Qunari? I don’t think you came here seeking fame and fortune, either, but things happen.”

She shrugged in assent.

"I wouldn't trade any of it. You know that." And before he could respond, he lifted her chin and kissed her, right there in front of everyone, and she decided she didn't even care.

"Now everyone is staring," he whispered.

She grinned. "Let them stare.”

For the sake of propriety, they parted ways just outside the Keep with a chaste kiss.

"Please be careful," he said, squeezing her hand. "Don't start a war."

"And don't accept tea from an Antivan. I know." She smiled at him. "You be careful, too."

He placed his hand over his heart. "Always."

He went inside, but Hawke dallied for a moment, adjusting her robes, resisting the urge to touch her hair, checking her boot laces. Despite her flippant attitude, she really was nervous. This could be important. This could be an opportunity to make an ally that could help put an end to Meredith Stannard’s reign of terror. She wished she’d brought Varric; diplomacy really wasn’t her strongest suit.

“Good morning, Champion,” someone greeted her in a hesitant tone, startling her out of her own head and back into the world.

Get it together, Hawke.

Taking a deep breath, she went inside.

 

Her heart pounded as she approached the throne room doors. She had forgotten that the last time she passed through those doors she had been half-dead. Shaking her head to chase away the thought, she proceeded.

A woman stood at the foot of the stairs, her back to the door. She wore a bow strapped to her back and armor unlike anything Hawke had seen before. She turned, and Hawke recognized the Grey Warden insignia etched across the chestplate.

Sudden panic stopped Hawke in her tracks. Alistair and Anders had both deserted the order. Could they be punished? Was this woman here to take them back to Ferelden?

“Well, well,” the woman said. “The Champion of Kirkwall. This is quite the honor.”

It was her smug tone that brought the realization home. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Ser,” Hawke said stiffly. “I’m not sure which of your titles I should use.”

The woman laughed. She was pretty, but in a cold way. Like a statue. "You could call me Regina."

Hawke responded with a tight smile. "And you could tell me why you're here."

Her smile widened without ever touching her eyes. "I hear congratulations are in order," she said, her eyes moving to the carved wood band on Hawke's finger.

"And you came all this way to wish us well? I think the honor is mine, Warden Commander Mac Tir." She bowed.

Regina's gaze sharpened. "I came to make you aware that Alistair has renounced his claim to the throne."

"I hate to tell you that you wasted your trip, but I already knew that."

"You understand, then, that any attempt to reclaim the throne would be an act of treason? That he - and any accomplices - would be put to death?"

Hawke stared at the woman for a moment, then burst out laughing. When Regina folded her arms and glared, she laughed even harder, until she had to bite the inside of her lip to regain her composure. "That's why you're here? Because you think we have some grand plan to dethrone Queen Anora?"

The woman's jaw clenched. "Well, there must be some reason you've failed to claim the Viscount's throne."

It was Hawke's turn to fold her arms. "I haven't failed at anything. I'm simply not interested in the throne. Not this one, and not the one in Denerim.” She felt venom at the tip of her tongue and she couldn’t hold it back. “I understand that this must be a difficult concept to grasp for a woman who wed her king's murderer, but I'm marrying Alistair because I love him."

Hawke was lucky that Regina wasn’t a mage, because her glare could have reduced her to ashes. "My apologies, Champion. I thought such a strong woman would be immune to the charms of a weak man."

"You'd be surprised at how different someone can be when you see him as a person and not just a pawn." She took a step toward the woman, keeping her hands open at her sides. "Run home to your step-daughter and assure her that she has nothing to fear from us. I suggest she turn her attention to real traitors. Like your husband."

Regina seethed. "I hardly need to defend the Teyrn of Gwaren to you, but -"

"But look at you, ready to do so nonetheless,” she said, smiling smugly. “You can save your breath. You’ve made your entirely unnecessary point, and now you can leave. I have far more important matters to attend to.” She turned on her heel and headed for the door.

“You’re in no position to make enemies,” Regina called after her. “I hope you know that.”

Hawke paused and half-turned to face her. “If you think I’m your enemy, then Ferelden really is in trouble.” And she pushed through the doors.

  
  



	24. If It Isn't One Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is just full of surprises all of a sudden.

When Alistair returned to the estate that night, he brought flowers. Gorgeous flame-red dahlias, tied with wide satin ribbon in Hawke’s favorite shade of purple.

“What’s gotten into you?” She cradled the flowers in one arm and pulled him close with the other hand.

“I just wanted you to know how incredible you are.” He kissed her softly, caressing her cheek.

She beamed. "Thank you, love. I'm a lucky woman. Now get out of this,” she tapped his chestplate. “Dinner will be ready soon." He went upstairs to change, and she put the flowers in water, tying the ribbon around the neck of the vase.

Orana was just putting dinner on the table when Alistair came in. There was something strange about his smile, about the way he looked at her, but she couldn’t figure it out.

“How was your day?”

He seemed almost startled by the question. “Oh. It was good. I mean fine. It was fine.” He suddenly became engrossed in his plate. “How was, uh, how was your… thing?” He didn’t look at her.

Narrowing her eyes, she slowly set down her fork. “Alistair, did you spy on me?”

He raised his hands. “It was Aveline’s idea!”

“Oh, that was not your best defense!” She pushed away from the table and stood.

Alistair got up but kept his distance. “Really? Because she is my captain, meaning I’m supposed to do what she says.”

“I suppose that’s a fair point,” she huffed. “But that doesn’t let you off completely! What were you thinking, telling Aveline about the meeting at all?”

“Now that was not me, love. Aveline approached me about the meeting as soon as I hit the barracks this morning. I think she knew about it even before you did.”

“And did she know who it was?” She advanced on him, pointing her finger. “Did you? Is that why -”

“Maker, Gwenyth, would you calm down? No, I didn’t know who it was, and I don’t think Aveline did either. We were worried about you, is all! She said ‘Am I the only one who’s a little concerned? What if it’s a trap?’ and I was actually also concerned that it was a trap!”

She crossed her arms. He was making it very difficult to stay angry with him. “Were you alone?”

“No. I got the impression she didn’t trust me enough to send me on my own. She came, too.”

Groaning, Hawke threw herself back into her chair. “I’m really not happy about any of this. Especially the bit where you manage to justify it in ways I can't seem to argue with."

"Well I'm sorry you feel that way, but I'm not sorry I was there." He reached for her hand across the table. "You were magnificent, darling."

She rolled her eyes. "Alistair, I love you. Explaining that isn't exactly a difficult task."

He smiled. "I'm free tomorrow afternoon. Shall we go to the Chantry? I want to marry you before you change your mind."

"Oh, the Chantry," she grumbled under her breath.

"That is where weddings are performed, you know." Alistair looked at her carefully. "Is something wrong?"

She shook her head. "No, I just...it's going to be such a scene, you know. Half the damned city will show up.”

“Maybe they’ll bring gifts.” He gave her a winning smile.

Laughing, she shook her head. “You really are adorable.”

 

Mother Melaine stared at the two of them as if they’d expressed a desire to dance naked before the statue of Andraste. “What do you mean, you’ll be taking her name?”

Hawke and Alistair exchanged a look.

“I mean exactly that. Instead of her taking my name, I’ll take hers.”

“Where in the world did you get an idea like that?”

He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. “It was my idea, actually.”

“My child, tradition dictates -”

“You must understand that our circumstances are a bit… non-traditional.”

The young mother glared at Hawke’s interruption.

“Yes, that’s exactly right! You see, I was raised in a monastery, so I don’t -”

“You are no orphan, Serah Theirin.”

Hawke received a flash of inspiration. “Mother Melaine, surely you don’t want to cause tension between Ferelden and the Free Marches?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I recently had a visit with an… agent of the Queen. There are concerns that our marriage could be perceived as a threat to Anora’s reign. What better way to allay those suspicions than to drop the Theirin name altogether?”

Mother Melaine pressed her lips into a thin line. “Very well. I will allow it. But only in a private ceremony. I won’t have half the city bear witness as you cast tradition into the sea.”

Hawke’s eyes lit up. “That’s wonderful!”

“She means ‘thank you,’ Revered Mother. We appreciate your understanding.”

“Splendid. Now, shall we choose a date?”

 

They left the Chantry arm in arm with giddy smiles.

“Let’s go tell Varric.”

“Can we go home first?” Alistair gestured to his clothes. “I don’t think the Hanged Man and the Chantry follow the same dress code.”

“I suppose I’d rather not let that comforting tavern smell soak into every dress I own.”

When Alistair entered the estate, he nearly collided with Fenris.

Hawke stiffened. “Fenris? What are you doing here?”

“I - I came to speak with you. I left a message with Bodahn.”

“I - maybe I should go change,” Alistair said slowly.

Hawke and Fenris disagreed in unison.

“That is not necessary. I - I have come to ask for help.” Fenris turned to Hawke. “It’s my sister. I followed up on Hadriana’s information, and everything she said was true. I contacted Varania, sent her coin enough to come and meet me. She’s here now.”

“And you’re afraid that Danarius knows.”

“The more it seems he doesn’t know, the more certain I become that he does.” He gave her a pleading look. “I know I have no right to ask for your help -”

“Where is she?”

“The Hanged Man. For the next week, during the day, she’ll be there.”

“Well, that works out nicely,” Alistair smiled. “We were just headed that way.”

“Give us a moment to change.” Hawke put her hand on Fenris’ arm. “We will see this through.”

“I - thank you. Both of you.”

Neither of them spoke until Hawke closed the bedroom door behind them. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“He seems to be in need. Helping people is what we do, isn’t it?”

“He is in need. I’m not sure how much you know about Fenris.”

“I know that he broke your heart.”

She turned to look at him. “That was a long time ago, Alistair.”

He nodded.

“Fenris was a slave in the Imperium. His master…” She shook her head. “If this is a trap, I’ll be glad to help Fenris tear his heart out and be done with it.”

“And if it isn’t a trap?”

She half-smiled. “Then we get to witness a happy reunion.”

 

Just seeing Varania had a profound effect on Fenris. “I… I remember you. We played in our master’s courtyard while mother worked. You called me…”

“Leto. That’s your name.”

There was something in her tone that put Hawke on edge. She and Varric exchanged a glance.

Apparently, Fenris felt it too. “What’s wrong? Why are you so -”

“Fenris, we have to get out of here.” She grabbed his arm. “It’s a trap!”

A voice came from the top of the stairs. “Ah, my little Fenris. Predictable as always.”

In that instant, a dozen conflicting emotions flooded Hawke, but the one she latched onto felt like relief. Finally.

Danarius turned his attention to her. “I take it this is your new master? The Champion of Kirkwall? Impressive.”

“Fenris doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy? It’s not surprising. The lad is rather skilled, isn’t he?”

Hawke saw a flash of blue from the corner of her eye. “Shut your mouth, Danarius.”

“The word,” the magister said tiredly, “is ‘master’.”

Hawke drew her staff. “I’m going to wipe that smirk off your face.”

In a perfect world, this nightmare would have ended for Fenris as soon as Danarius’ broken, bleeding corpse lay at his feet. But this was not a perfect world; he still had Varania to contend with.

She cowered in the corner. “I had no choice, Leto.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“He was going to make me his apprentice. I would have been a magister.”

Hawke suddenly felt so sick that she pressed her hand to her lips.

“You sold out your own brother to become a magister!” Fenris snarled.

“You have no idea what we went through! What I’ve had to do since mother died! This was my only chance!”

“And now you have no chance at all!” He advanced on her.

“Please don’t do this!” Varania looked over Fenris’ shoulder to Hawke. “Please, make him stop!”

“You have this coming,” she replied coldly. She watched him reach into the girl’s chest and crush her traitorous heart.

Fenris turned to her. “I feel unclean, like this magic is not only etched into my skin, but has stained my soul. I need to get out of here.” He pushed past her and out the door.

She shook her head. “Some things never change.” She turned to Alistair. “Are you alright?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea how to answer that. I think I need a drink.”

“Come upstairs,” Varric offered. “There’s fewer corpses.”

  
  
  



	25. Light In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another friend, another favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back, sorry for the delay. Had some big life stuff happen.
> 
> As for Kirkwall...well, you know.

Once the three of them had settled around the table in Varric’s suite, drinks in hand, they all let out a sigh.

“What do you think Broody will do now?”

Hawke tried for a smile and failed. “I had hoped that once Danarius was dead, he might set his hatred aside.” She shrugged. “That no longer seems likely.”

"I can't believe his own sister could do that to him." Alistair shook his head. "For power, of all things."

"My own brother did trap us in the Deep Roads and leave us to die," Varric shrugged. "For money."

Hawke dropped her gaze to the table. When Varric touched her hand, she mustered a smile. She knew that he still felt guilty over Carver's death, and she had to be careful not to add to it.

"Well." Alistair cleared his throat. "Gwenyth and I stopped by the Chantry today and made it official. We're getting married next month."

Varric's face lit up. "What? That's great news! What are we doing drinking this swill? We should celebrate!" He went to the cabinet where he kept his good liquor.

Alistair chuckled. "Doesn't the celebration come after the wedding?"

Varric looked at him quizzically. "Are you putting a limit on celebrations?"

 

It had been Alistair's idea to try the clinic. When they saw the flickering lantern, he poked Hawke with his elbow.

"You owe me two bits!"

She grinned and shook her head. "So I do."

They found Anders asleep at his desk, a ragged quill clutched limply in his hand. As soon as Alistair laid a hand on his back, he jerked upright, overturning an inkwell. "Oh, Maker’s balls!” He scrambled fruitlessly to clean up the mess with his bare hands.

“Anders.” Hawke touched his wrist. “The damage is done.”

“Right. Yeah. I suppose it is.” He rubbed his forehead, replacing a smear of dirt with one of ink.

“Why don’t you have dinner with us?” Alistair asked, glancing at Hawke for approval.

“You look like you could use a hot meal… and a hot bath,” she added.

Anders glared at her. “I’m fine.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Anders, you’re outnumbered. Don’t make us do this the hard way.” Her grin faded when she saw his expression darken. “I’m only joking. You know that.”

“Come on, man.” Alistair pleaded. “It’s been an age.”

“Alright,” he sighed, “but only because I’d hate to see you cry.” He turned to Hawke. “How do you ever win an argument with that man?”

Alistair answered before she could. “I think you’re forgetting how scary she can be.”

The three of them left the clinic and made their way to the cellar entrance of the estate.

“I’m not scary,” Hawke protested.

Anders fought back a grin. “You have facial expressions that can strike terror in the hearts of even the bravest men, Hawke.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about that look you get, the one that says ‘I can set you on fire and don’t think I’m not tempted!’”

As she unlocked the door, she opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. “I would never set either of you on fire,” she muttered, and both men laughed.

 

After a small argument and a little shoving, Anders was soaking in the tub in the spare bedroom, and Hawke and Alistair had gone upstairs to change.

“Are you alright, love?”

She tried to speak but the tears came and she sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

Alistair was at her side in an instant. “Gwenyth, what’s wrong?”

“I hate seeing him like this. It’s too much -” She covered her face with her hands. The truth - that Anders’ sallow, sunken cheeks reminded her too much of Carver’s tainted flesh - was too awful to speak. “I hate not being able to help him.”

“I know.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “I know.”

She rested her forehead against his neck and took a few deep, calming breaths. ”Okay, enough of that.” When the tears ceased, she sat up and wiped her eyes. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful, of course.”

 

They went downstairs and had a glass of wine and still, Anders hadn’t emerged.

Hawke crossed the room, her forehead creased, and knocked on the door to the guestroom. “Anders?”

Nothing.

“Alistair -”

He was already there, and gave the door a cursory tap before easing it open. “You okay in there, man?” he called. Taking two steps into the room, he stopped, laughed, and shook his head.

Hawke poked her head around the corner. Anders had fallen asleep in the tub, his arms draped over the sides, his head back, his mouth hanging wide open. She stifled a giggle.

Alistair crossed to him. “Rise and shine, handsome.” He dipped both hands into the tub and splashed water across Anders’ face.

He jerked awake, sloshing a bit of water out of the tub. Making an unintelligible series of noises, he rubbed his face before looking up at them. “Was I -?” He shook his head. “Oh this is getting embarrassing,” he sighed.

“What, sleeping?” Hawke shook her head. “I’ll let you in on a secret - I sleep too. Come on, dinner’s waiting.” She and Alistair left, shutting the door behind them.

“At least we know he’s gotten a bit of rest,” Alistair whispered as they headed toward the dining room.

Hawke didn’t think her smile was very convincing.

 

When Anders joined them in the dining room, Hawke had to admit that he looked a bit better. As thin as he’d gotten, she half-expected - or maybe half-hoped - that he would shovel food down without stopping to breathe, but he seemed to be forcing himself to eat at all.

“You’re gonna have to clear us a little space on your calendar,” Alistair said. “We’re getting married.”

“It’s about time,” he teased. “I take it you know when?”

Hawke reached for her wine. “The eleventh of Solace.”

“That’s… that’s good. That’s really good.” He looked at his plate for a long while before meeting Hawke’s eyes. “I wonder, then, if this would be a bad time to ask for your help?”

She sat up a bit straighter. “Of course not! What do you need?”

“I’ve spent the past three years researching the methods of Tevinter magisters. I believe I have a formula for a potion that can separate Justice and me. Without killing either.”

“Is it dangerous?” Alistair interjected.

“There are always dangers with magic,” Anders nodded. “But I believe this will be worth the cost.”

“Surely your freedom is worth any risk it entails,” Hawke insisted.

Anders smiled. “I knew you’d stand behind me in this.” But his expression darkened and he looked away.

“Anders? What is it?”

He met her eyes once more. “Nothing. Sorry. The potion calls for a rather… outlandish ingredient. The Tevinter call it ‘sela petrae’.”

She studied him in silence for a long while. “A potion. That’s really all it is?”

“That’s all. Just mix the ingredients up, and… boom. Justice and I are free.”

Just hearing those words brought a measure of peace to Hawke’s heart. “Alright, I’m in. What is this ‘sela petrae’ and how do we get it?”

“It’s a crystal that forms in concentrated manure. And urine.”

Alistair spluttered into his wine glass. “And you’re gonna drink that?”

“Well, it won’t be just that.”

Alistair pointed at Hawke. “If you drink that, I might never kiss you again. Remember that.”

“Why do you think I would drink it?”

He shrugged. “Because you might just be crazy enough to think ‘Hmm, wonder what would happen if I took a sip?’”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and shrugged sheepishly, eliciting laughter from both men.

“I won’t let her drink it.”

“Thank you.” Alistair sipped his wine. “And I’m not kissing you either.”

Anders pouted. “I’d better rethink that bachelor party, then.”

Hawke sighed, feigning exasperation, but she was secretly fighting back tears of relief. There was hope for her friend after all.

 

Hawke met Anders at the clinic the next day. She wore trousers tucked into a pair of battered knee-high boots, and had even found a serviceable pair of long leather gloves.

He gave his head a slight shake when he saw her. “I take it you’re ready?”  
“Oh, I’m ready. Let’s go faff about in piles of human excrement!”

“I really appreciate your help, Hawke,” he said as they made their way through the sewers.

“Anders, I’d help you with anything. This, though, you didn’t even need to ask.”

“You’re awfully enthusiastic about mining bodily wastes.”

She rolled her eyes. “I miss you, Anders. I miss - ugh.” She held up a rocky lump coated in the unspeakable. “Is this…?”

“Oh that’s perfect!” Anders held open the bag. “And you were saying?”

She glared at him. “I miss doing things with you. Not disgusting things. Killing bandits, rescuing slaves, and things like that.”

“I know,” he said hollowly. “I miss you too. You know that.”

“But this will change everything, right?”

“That it will.”

“Then onward to more filth,” she grinned.

 

 


	26. Cause for Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assuming anyone's still interested in this, I'm sorry I kept you waiting so long! Pregnancy sapped my energy and scrambled my brains. I've literally been working on this chapter for the better part of a year!

Hawke sat, eyes shut, as Merrill tucked tiny purple wildflowers into her crimson curls.

"I'm so glad for you, Hawke," she chirped. "You deserve such happiness, after all you've been through. Oh, Creators!" Her voice sounded decidedly wet. "You're so beautiful!"

Hawke’s brows arched. “Can I look yet?”

“Um, just one more - okay, there! You can look.”

She opened her eyes, blinking a few times until her reflection came into focus. Merrill had pinned her hair up loosely, leaving a few tendrils framing her face. When Hawke turned her head, she could see the flashes of violet peeking out of all the red. “Oh, Merrill,” she sighed in awe.

“No, don’t you dare cry! You’ll muss your lovely face!” She fanned Hawke’s cheeks vigorously.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Are you alright in there? It’s about that time.”

“Yes, coming,” she called, getting to her feet. She turned side to side in front of the mirror, admiring the way the high collar of her slim-fitting gown framed her neck. She went for the door, but Merrill darted in front of her.

“No, let me!” She waited for Hawke to reach the door before she swept it open.

When Gamlen saw her, he pressed his hand to his chest. “By the Maker, girl. Can I-?” He held out his arms.

“Mind her hair!” Merrill squealed.

Chuckling, he settled for clasping Hawke’s bare shoulders. “You are a vision, Gwenyth. If only -” He paused, catching his lip between his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I miss her too.”

“She would be so proud of you, you know.”

Blinking back tears, she nodded. She didn’t always believe that, but today she did.

“Come on, then. Let’s not keep your man waiting.” Gamlen offered her his arm and she took it.

“Oh, wait, wait! Let me go first!” Merrill went skittering down the stairs so frantically that Hawke listened for a crash or thud.

To her relief, she heard neither. She looked to her uncle. “Shall we?”

He escorted her slowly down from the wings and to the foot of the stairs that led to the altar. “Thank you for letting me do that, Gwenyth.”

She lifted up on her toes to kiss his clean-shaven cheek. “I’m glad to have you here.”

He gave her a slightly sad smile and climbed the short staircase, turned, and was out of sight.

Hawke took a trembling breath. Her entire life awaited her just up those stairs. “Blessed Andraste,” she whispered, “don’t let me fall on my face.” Resisting the urge to touch her hair, she ascended the steps and rounded the corner. Gamlen stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for her, and as she approached he took a step back, sweeping his arm to present her to the waiting crowd. At the top of the stairs, she stopped.

All of her friends were gathered there, eyes on her. Bodahn and Sandal flanked Orana, who watched Hawke with shining eyes. Merrill had already started weeping, Aveline stood arm and arm with Donnic. Isabela had on both an actual dress and a warm, open smile - and Fenris stood just behind her, giving Hawke a stiff smile when their eyes met. Sebastian looked so pleased to see Hawke in the Chantry that she fought the urge to stick her tongue out at him. Varric wore his finest coat and looked just the slightest bit uncomfortable without Bianca.

And there, by the altar, stood Alistair, resplendent in his bronze brocade jacket. The way he looked at her made her want to hitch up her skirt and run to him, throw her arms around him, bury her face in his neck. As tears filled her eyes, she slowly strode through the cluster of guests to take her place before him.

“Wow,” he mouthed, and she laughed, and Mother Melaine cleared her throat sternly.

Hawke dabbed carefully at the corners of her eyes and gave the Revered Mother a sheepish smile. When the woman started speaking, though, Hawke’s eyes and mind wandered once more.

Where was Anders? Anger and worry twined into a snarled knot in her stomach and a crease formed between her brows, a mix of how could he and I hope he’s alright tangling in her head, and suddenly there he was at the head of the stairs, glancing around shamefacedly before meeting Hawke’s eyes with a sheepish grimace - sorry I’m late.

She glared at him, but the tension had left her and she turned her attention back to her groom, offering him a sheepish look of her own.

He smiled at her, his warm amber eyes crinkling at the corners, and it was all she could do to keep from turning to Mother Melaine and telling her to get on with it so that she could just kiss him already.

When that moment did come, Hawke kissed Alistair so long and so thoroughly that Mother Melaine practically pulled them apart by force. Laughing, their faces wet with mingled tears, they turned to face their guests - their family.

There was scarcely a dry eye among them.

 

Their procession through the streets of Hightown drew a lot of stares; the bride and groom were too busy beaming at each other to notice. Everyone returned to the estate, where a crew of hirelings - mostly refugees and elves from the alienage - had a massive feast waiting.

Hawke headed for the stairs, but Alistair stopped her. "You're not going to change, are you?"

"I was..."

He ran his hand down her bare arm. "When will I ever see you in this again? Wear it just a bit longer, won't you?"

Smiling, she sighed melodramatically. "Fine. But only because you're so hard to say no to. Now let's join the others before I change my mind."

Smiling, he took her hand. When they entered the dining room, their guests clapped and cheered until they were seated.

A young Fereldan woman, the widow of one of the miners, came around with the wine. Once everyone's glass had been filled, Varric stood.

"Oh no," Hawke's groaned, covering her face.

"Don't worry, I'll keep it brief," he assured her. "This morning I took the time to reflect on all the ridiculous shit that led up to this point, and I feel like there's only one thing to say." He raised his glass and looked at Alistair. "To Alistair, for once daring to spill a drink on the most dangerous woman in Kirkwall."

Hawke's smile grew even bigger as she raised her glass. "To Alistair," she cheered with the others, leaning over to kiss him.

"Enough of that," he said, blushing. "Let's eat."

They ate, they drank, they moved out into the gardens to drink and dance to Orana's lute under the stars. Even Aveline and Donnic danced, shortly before taking their leave.

"Congratulations, Hawke," Aveline said, squeezing her shoulder. "He's a fine man."

Hawke looked over at the man in question, who was locked in a serious-looking discussion with Merrill. As if he felt her eyes upon him, he glanced up and grinned. "He is." She turned back to her friend. "It was good to have you here. Both of you. Are you sure you want to be the first to go?"

Donnic scratched his head. "Oh, I thought that honor went to the tired-looking fellow in the feathery coat."

A crease formed between Hawke's brows. "Anders left?"

Aveline frowned. "Without so much as a goodbye, apparently."

"That's Anders for you.” Shrugging, Hawke forced a smile. “Anyhow, are you sure you have to go?"

"You know Aveline," Donnic said, giving his wife a fond squeeze. "Early to bed, early to the barracks."

Aveline glared at them both before grinning. “Someone has to set an example,” she said teasingly.

 

Dancing and drinking in the garden gradually gave way to drinking and cards by the fire as guests slowly trickled out. When Varric and Gamlen were all that remained, Alistair stood.

"If either of you have any parting words for my lovely bride, now's the time."

"And why is that?" Hawke asked, then shrieked as Alistair scooped her out of her chair, much to the amusement of their friend and her uncle.

"Too late!" He bowed to their laughing guests as best he could with his arms full, then backed through the doorway. "Forgive me, my love, I just couldn't wait another moment to have you alone."

"Does this mean I'm finally getting out of this dress?" she teased, her arms around his neck as he carried her up the stairs.

"Mmm, you'd better believe it," he murmured as he fumbled open the bedroom door and kicked it closed behind them. He eased her down onto the bed. "Not just yet, though. I want a proper look at you."

Hawke arranged herself atop the blanket as he lit the lamps on either side of the bed. When he returned to her side, the warm glow that bathed them gave him an ethereal look. She reached up and stroked his cheek. "Is all this a dream?" she said softly.

"If it is," he said, trailing his fingers down her neck and chest to tug at the lacing of her dress, "let me sleep." He leaned down and captured her mouth, smiling at her soft sigh.

 

 


	27. To the Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That’s Kirkwall for you. Anything worth doing is worth doing in the most catastrophic way possible."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe don't read this. Let's stop at the last chapter and let our newlyweds live happily ever after. We all know what's coming.

The ringing in Hawke's ears couldn't quite drown out the chaos. She couldn't make out what anyone was saying - and she didn't want to

Something landed on her cheek. She brushed it away with a trembling hand and stared at the grey smudge on her palm. Ash, she finally realized. Her fingers curled into a fist. "I have to find my husband." She wasn't even sure if she spoke the words aloud.

But then Meredith said something that penetrated the fog inside her head.

"- the Rite of Annulment."

Hawke froze, her stomach churning. "You can't -"

"The Circle didn't even DO this!" Orsino protested. "Champion, you can't let her! Help us stop this madness!"

She cursed the title and everything she’d ever done to earn it. She wanted no part in any of this, not now, not while -

"And I demand you stand with us, Meredith said coldly. "Even you must see this madness cannot be tolerated!"

Sebastian cut in before Hawke could respond. "Why are we debating the Rite of Annulment when the monster who did this is right here?" His eyes blazed. "I swear to you, I will kill him."

Ignoring all of them, Anders spoke to her. "It can't be stopped now. You have to choose."

Her hands shook. "I will not stand by and let the Order slaughter innocent people."

"Think carefully, Champion," Meredith said. "Stand with them and you share their fate."

"I can live with that."

"No," Fenris growled. "I will not fight to save these mages. Not for you, not for anyone."

And there it was, the day that was always coming. Hawke met his eyes. "Don't get in my way," she warned, her voice strained.

Giving her an almost imperceptible nod, he turned and walked away.

To her surprise, Aveline said "I see what you're trying to do, and my place is...with you."

She hoped her friend could read the gratitude in her eyes.

"You are a fool, Champion," the Knight-Commander hissed. "Kill them all! I will rouse the rest of the Order!"

If she thought it would help, Hawke would have killed her on the spot. If only it were that simple.

Orsino turned to the waiting mages. "Go! Get to the Gallows before it's too late!"

Hawke and her friends found themselves surrounded by hostile templars. She knew that under those helmets there were familiar faces, faces that may once have been friendly. It almost surprised her that none of them hesitated before attacking.

Almost.

Between her friends and the handful of Circle mages, these templars were little more than an inconvenience. When they had been dealt with, the First Enchanter thanked them for their help, his voice heavy with despair, before leaving for the Gallows. “I’ll leave you to deal with...him,” he said with disgust.

Anders sat on a crate, shoulders slumped, and did not look at Hawke when she approached him.

"There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself. I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever to achieve this. This is the justice all mages have awaited!"

"Justice?" Hawke echoed. "You murdered innocent people, Anders, and now mages are being slaughtered in the streets! And I -" she choked down the bile that rose in her throat. "I helped you, didn't I?"

"You what?" Sebastian roared.

She held up a hand to ward him off. "There never was a ritual, was there?"

"If I told you the truth, you would have been honour-bound to stop me."

Her voice cracked, but no tears came. "And you used the wedding as a distraction."

His head dropped a little lower. "I... The world needs to see this! Then we can stop pretending the Circle is a solution."

“Why are you letting him speak?” Sebastian demanded. “Hawke, he must pay for what he’s done! Elthina must have justice!”

Unable to speak, Hawke just glared at him. “Enough, Sebastian.”

“‘Enough’? Are you mad? He deserves to die!”

Anders spoke up. “My life is a small price to pay. At least then, maybe Justice would be free.”

She could stand to hear no more. “You need to leave, Anders.”

A wave of protests crashed against her ears, and it was all she could do not to cup her hands over her ears to drown everyone out. I’m dreaming, Hawke thought. This is all some awful nightmare, and when I wake up, Anders will still be selflessly tending to refugees and kittens, and Sebastian will still be maddeningly pious and irresistibly gentle, and the Circle mages will still be safe, and...

“He dies,” Sebastian insisted, “or I am returning to Starkhaven. And I will bring such an army on my return that there will be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!”

“Sebastian, don’t,” she pleaded.

He squared his shoulders. “I will not fight you, Hawke,” he said, his voice cold, the voice of a stranger. “My death today would serve nothing. But so help me, I will come back, I will find him, and I will show him what justice is!”

She had no more words for him, nor did she wish to watch him leave. She turned back to Anders. “Get out of here,” she ordered. When he looked as if he might speak, she held out her hand. “I don’t want another word from you, Anders. Just go.” She turned to what friends she had left. “Aveline -"

"Hawke, he's at the docks today."

Hawke let out a shaky sigh. "Thank the Maker for that, at least." No one was safe in Kirkwall today, but knowing that Alistair was far from the blast gave her hope. "Are we ready?"

"Does it matter?" Varric sighed. "Let's go."

They soon found they had more than just templars to contend with - demons roamed the bloody Lowtown streets as well.

“Creators!” Merrill cried. “It gets worse and worse!”

“That’s Kirkwall for you,” Varric called. “Anything worth doing is worth doing in the most catastrophic way possible.”

 

Hawke didn’t understand how there were so damned many templars. She was relieved, of course - the more were here, the fewer were at the Gallows - but she could use a break. Her whole body trembled from the barrage of cleansing attacks, and she had precious little lyrium left.

The five of them rounded a corner to find a guard facing off against half a dozen templars, and her heart stopped. She knew Alistair by the way he stood, by the swing of his sword, even from this distance. She put a wall of ice between him and his attackers to buy him some time as Aveline and Isabela joined the fray.

Turning to her, he raised his sword in acknowledgement before levelling it at the nearest foe.

With the numbers evened, they made short work against the templars, and Hawke allowed herself just a moment, throwing herself into her husband’s armored chest.

“Gwenyth, thank the Maker.” Gently cupping her face in his gauntleted hands, he pressed his forehead to hers. “Are you alright?”

She nodded. “Just tired. You?”

“I’m fine - what’s going on? I had to stop these men from cutting down some poor elven woman, then they turned on me!"

Hawke shook her head, unsure of how to tell him.

“Gwenyth, what is it?”

“We have to get to the Gallows.” She took the coward’s path and hoped he’d forgive her. “Meredith has called for the Rite of Annulment.”

His eyes widened. "Let's go."

 

As they descended the great stone steps to the docks, they could see so many bodies littering the ground.

"I'm not sure even the Qunari did this much damage," Isabela said.

Hawke saw a lone mage standing amid all the corpses, brandishing his staff frantically. "Stop!" she cried. "We won't hurt you! We want to help!" When he lowered his staff, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She didn't see the dagger in his hand until it was too late. She screamed as he raked it down his own arm, and suddenly she and her friends were surrounded by shades. She lost sight of the mage.

"Find him!" she shouted. "Stop him before -"

The ground shook and she stumbled to one knee.

"Before he can summon a pride demon?" Varric yelled, as the monster lumbered toward them.

Hawke didn't have time to respond. She had to find the mage, or they might all die here. Dodging the shades that advanced on her friends, she ducked down the alley.

He was there, crouched in a corner, and she felt bad for him, she really did, but she put a bolt of ice through him on sight. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. She was searching the body for potions when she heard someone shout her name.

Downing a vial of lyrium, she raced back to the others.

She saw Merrill running, saw Varric’s strange expression, saw Aveline kneeling beside…

“Alistair!” Hawke screamed. He was sitting against the wall in a pool of blood. Aveline was helping him with a healing potion.

Merrill had reached him; her tiny hands were pressed to a ragged hole punched through his plate. “Hawke, I don’t know what to do.”

She dropped to her knees beside him and cursed herself for a fool.

He turned to her, his face ashen. “Those bastards are faster than I realized,” he gasped.

“Shh. We have to get you out of your armor, alright?”

Aveline heard her and got to work.

Incomprehensibly, Alistair chuckled, albeit weakly. “I hardly think this is the time, my love.”

Hawke unwrapped the wide sash from around her waist. “That’s never stopped us before, has it?” They got him out of his armor and she pressed her hands over the wound without looking at it. Closing her eyes, she poured every ounce of her strength into the one pathetic healing spell she knew. It seemed to slow the flow of blood at least a little. “More healing potions!” she barked.

“No,” Alistair protested. “You should save them, you -”

“Don’t even think that,” she hissed, tying her sash around him to put pressure on the wound. “You’re coming with us, there’s got to be someone at the Gallows -”

He fumbled weakly for her hand. “Gwenyth -”

“No,” she growled, lifting a potion to his lips. “I am not losing you.” She turned to Aveline. “Help me get him up.”

“Let me,” Isabela insisted. “You could use someone to carry you, too.”

She staggered to her feet, knowing she was in no shape to argue, and the six of them made their way down to the water.

  
  
  


 

  
  
  



	28. It Gets Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and her crew head to the Gallows to finish the fight.

They found an empty ship - surprising, in all the chaos. Hawke couldn’t imagine what would have possessed the crew to do anything but get as far from Kirkwall as possible. "Bela, can you -"

Isabela sucked her teeth. "I can't believe you have to ask! Come on." She and Aveline staggered up the gangplank, Alistair hanging limp between them.

"I just meant without a crew," Hawke sighed as she followed them.

"I'm a quick study," Varric offered.

Merrill piped up as well. "Ooh, can I help?"

“I fully expect you all to call me Captain Isabela now.”

They lay Alistair down; Hawke dropped to the deck beside him and spoke his name.

His lashes fluttered and he moaned a little, but that was all.

Pressing her hand to his chest, she felt his heart beating weakly. Hot tears filled her eyes as she poured another healing draught down his throat.

She probed gingerly under the bandage. The wound had shrunk considerably and the bleeding at this point was mild. She knew better than to waste more mana on her healing magic; it was a superficial spell that did superficial work and had little impact on his internal damage.

"How is he?"

Merrill's voice startled her. "He's still alive," she said, not looking up.

"Hawke, I could...I mean, if you wanted, I -"

She looked at her, uncomprehending, and then it hit her. "Your demon." Looking down at her husband's face, she felt sick, dizzy with responsibility. Could it be that simple? Just a little blood, a call for help across the Veil, a willing spirit -

"No," she said sharply, even though her voice cracked. She was thinking of Anders - of Justice. "I've had enough of demons and spirits today."

"I...alright."

Taking his limp hand in both of hers, she squeezed her eyes shut. Dear Maker, she thought, don't you take him from me. Don't you dare.

 

When they reached the Gallows, they found a cluster of mages on the steps, fighting a handful of templars back from the gates.

Pressing a kiss between his brows, Hawke dragged herself to her feet. A quick glance at Merrill and Varric told her they were ready, and the three of them launched a surprise attack before Isabela could even moor the boat.

With their help, the mages made short work of the small invading force. There came a few grateful cries of "Champion!" before the mages began to fall back through the gates.

"Please!" Hawke shouted. "We need a healer!"

A few of the mages paused, and one broke away from the others and approached as Isabela was lowering the gangplank.

"Are you badly wounded, Champion?" He pulled back his hood, revealing sharp elven features.

"Not me. Please," she motioned for him to come aboard. "I don't dare move him again."

A crease formed between his brows as he made his way up to them.

"I've done what I can, but I'm no healer. Obviously."

Dropping to one knee, he pressed a hand to Alistair's forehead, then his chest, then slid his long fingers under the bandage. Frowning, he got to his feet. "Forgive me, Champion." He didn't meet her eyes as he backed away. "His need is too great, and I'm needed in the Gallows."

"You can't just leave!" she shrieked as he retreated. "You have to help him!” She took a step towards him, and he broke into a run. “Someone has to help him!" She threw her staff onto the deck with a guttural cry, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Perhaps I could help him."

Hawke's entire body jerked at the sound of his voice, as if she'd been struck by lightning.

Anders walked slowly up the gangplank, his hands up. "Will you let me help?"

"If not you," she said, "then who? You're the best chance he's got." She stepped aside and watched him kneel beside Alistair, pull away the bandage, and examine the wound.

"I think I can save him," he said, then turned to look at her. "But you need to leave."

"What?"

"There's nothing more you can do here, and Meredith and her templars will slaughter every last mage in the Gallows if you don't stop them." Her turned back to Alistair. "I need you to trust me."

Varric snorted. "That's a lot to ask now, Blondie."

"He's right." Sighing, she picked up her staff. "That's what we came here to do, isn't it? Alistair wouldn't want us wasting any more time." She regarded Anders and Alistair. “Can you save him?” she choked out.

He turned his weary face to her. “I’ll do everything I can,” he promised.

It would have to be enough.

 

The air inside the Gallows was thick with tension as every mage old enough to fight - and more than a few who weren’t - prepared for the coming battle. Hawke’s group made their way to where Orsino waited.

“This is going to be bad,” Aveline said.

“I wouldn’t blame any of you for -”

“Don’t insult us, sweet thing.” Isabela patted Hawke on the ass. “We didn’t come this far for nothing.”

Hawke forced a smile, not looking at any of them. “I’ve made plenty of questionable decisions in my life,” she said, not sure if she was talking to her friends or herself. “However this ends, at least I know I made the right choice.”

 

The templars came without mercy, and a bloodbath ensued. The mages won out - this time.

“Why don’t they just drown us as infants?” Orsino growled. “Why wait? Why give us the illusion of hope?”

Hawke disagreed, but she didn’t have it in her to argue.

“I refuse to keep running! I won’t wait for her to kill me!”

“Meredith will die long before you do,” she assured him.

“If only I could believe that,” the First Enchanter sighed. “Quentin’s research was too evil, too dangerous, so I put it aside. But now I see there is no other way.”

The room spun and Hawke’s stomach spun with it. I can’t be hearing this. Before she could move, could try and stop what she feared was about to happen, the templars arrived.

“Meredith expects blood magic? Then I will give it to her. Maker help us all.”

Hawke had no words for what happened next, which was fine with her, as she never wanted to speak of it. Orsino was gone, and they defeated the monstrosity he had become. Hawke was running on pure rage.

“What hope is there now?” she spat, scraping what was left of him off her boot. “He was right, you know. Even if we beat the templars, more will come! And how will we convince them that the mages can be saved, when the First Enchanter himself chose blood magic in the end?”

“I hate to say it,” Varric said, “but maybe we should worry about that after we beat Meredith.”

Hawke gripped her staff so tightly that her knuckles blanched. “Good idea.”

 

The Knight Commander and what remained of the Order - and honestly, there were a lot more than Hawke had hoped for - waited in the courtyard.

“And here we are, Champion,” Meredith said, “at long last.”

“You’ll pay for what you’ve done here,” Hawke promised.

“I will be rewarded for what I’ve done here! In this world, and the next! I have done nothing but perform my duty. What happens to you now is your own doing. You were never part of this Circle, and I tolerated that. But in defending them, you have chosen to share their fate.”

To Hawke’s surprise, the Knight Captain stepped forward. “Knight Commander, I thought we intended to arrest the Champion.”

“You will do as I command, Cullen.”

“No. I defended you when Thrask started whispering that you were mad. But this is too far.”

Inexplicably, Hawke had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. Apparently she was not so drained that she couldn’t appreciate watching the Knight Commander get humiliated by her second-in-command.

“I will not allow insubordination!” Meredith drew her sword on the Knight Captain. “We must stay true to our path!” Hawke saw the blade glow red.

Varric spoke before she could. “Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks!”

Meredith turned to him. “You recognize it, do you not? Pure lyrium, taken from the Deep Roads. The dwarf charged a great deal for his prize.”

“Turning the idol into a fancy sword won’t save you,” Hawke warned.

Meredith levelled the blade at her. “All of you, I want her dead!”

“Enough!” Cullen shouted. “This is not what the Order stands for! Knight Commander, step down! I relieve you of your command!”

Meredith’s eyes narrowed. “My own knight captain falls prey to the influence of blood magic.”

Hawke wondered if she actually believed that, or if she was merely posturing. At this point, anything seemed possible.

“You all have!” she cried. “You’re all weak, allowing the mages to control your minds, to turn you against me!” She brandished her lyrium sword wildly, and the templars - her own templars - backed away from her. “But I don’t need any of you!” She pointed the blade at Hawke once more. “I will protect this city myself!”

The Knight Captain stepped between them. “You’ll have to go through me.”

“Traitor!” she screeched. “I’ll have your head!”

“She’s lost it,” Varric marveled. “Just like Bartrand.”

But the time for talk was over. Meredith thrust the sword into the ground and unnatural fire rose up from the flagstones.

Hawke had hoped, if nothing else, that years in a position more political than physical would have weakened Meredith, but the woman fought with fury. Even so, Hawke had her outnumbered.

In her desperation, Meredith tapped into the power of the lyrium idol, and it transformed her into something terrifying. Although not, Hawke thought, as terrifying as the First Enchanter. Unlike Orsino, the Knight Commander still looked mostly human, but with inhuman abilities.

The ground began to shake. Hawke watched, incredulous, as Meredith brought the statues around them to life. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, and knocked back her last vial of lyrium. Glancing out at the harbor beyond the gate, she wondered about her husband. “I love you, Alistair,” she whispered, and pressed her lips to her wedding ring.

Rolling her shoulders back, she turned back to Meredith and her army of statues. “Let’s make this count.”

 

To her great disbelief, Hawke didn’t die. None of them did. Surrounded by what remained of the Order, and beside the smoking remains of whatever Meredith had become, she leaned heavily on her staff.

"It's over," she whispered. "I think it's over."

The strange, tense silence was broken by a weak voice. "Well...I obviously missed a lot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter runs a little long but I couldn't bear to stop any sooner. There'll be one more chapter of this yet, at some point. Bless you all for sticking around, and I apologize for becoming so inconsistent. Motherhood is hard and babies are time consuming.


	29. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight is finished...this fight, at least.

Hawke’s staff clattered against the flagstones, forgotten, as she turned and ran.

Alistair, shirtless and bloody, clung to the gate with one hand, a ghost of his characteristic grin on his pale face.

It took a tremendous amount of willpower on Hawke’s part to slow her approach and embrace him gently. She pressed her forehead to his, her fingers curled in his hair. "Are you alright? Are you really alright?"

"I really am." He wrapped one arm around her waist and held her close. "You?"

She kissed him gingerly. "I'm fine. I’m fine now.”

He let go of the gate and stroked her hair. "You're shaking."

Resting her head on his chest, she laughed in spite of her tears. "It's been a long day."

"That it has. Maybe tomorrow you can tell me about it."

Her lips curled slightly in gratitude for his understanding, then she sighed. She didn’t want to ask, but she had to know. “Is Anders gone?”

Alistair stiffened in her embrace.

Pulling back, she took a look at his face and her stomach twisted into a knot. “What is it?”

“I just…” He shook his head, his brows knitting together, and turned away, looking out over the water. “Maker, Gwenyth, did he really destroy the Chantry?"

She nodded, hoping that he would never ask for more details than that.

He shook his head. "He is gone. He wanted me to thank you, for letting him help. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything."

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, returning her head to his shoulder. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Behind them, someone cleared their throat conspicuously. "I don't want to ruin the moment," Varric said, "but maybe we should get out of here."

"He's right," Hawke sighed, not moving. "We need to go." But she tightened her arms around him.

"Do we really, or are you just saying that?"

Reluctantly, she pulled away from him, taking his hand and squeezing it. She didn’t think she’d ever let him out of her reach again.

"Champion," a voice called from behind them.

Hawke flinched at the sound, but turned to see its source. Surely they wouldn't try to arrest her now?

Knight Captain Cullen approached her, carrying her staff. "I believe this is yours."

Taking her staff from a templar's hand was indescribably surreal. "I...thank you," she said, surprised, and looked up at him. He looked wearier than she had ever seen him - and that was saying something. "Not just for this. I'd be dead if it weren't for you."

He chuckled. "Somehow I doubt that."

An awkward silence bloomed between them, one Hawke wasn't sure how to break. "Well," she said, "I'm sure you have your hands full."

He rubbed his forehead. "I suppose I do," he sighed. "I imagine I'll see you again?"

"No offense, Knight Captain," she said, slinging her staff over her shoulder, "but I hope not."

 

Back on the boat, Hawke and Alistair slumped wearily on the deck, supporting each other.

"We can't stay," she said softly, one fingertip drawing idle circles on his leg. “It’s not safe.”

He rested his head against hers. “Where would you like to go?”

She snorted humorlessly. “Since every home I’ve ever had has been destroyed, maybe we ought to get as far from civilization as possible.”

“I’d rather not go back to Ferelden.” He stroked her arm. “If it’s all the same to you, that is.”

“That’s fine by me. We can start over somewhere.” But she wondered how far they would have to go - if they could ever go far enough to escape what Anders had done. A shiver ran through her.

“You alright?” he asked, coaxing her face to his.

“Just tired,” she said, shutting her eyes and resting her forehead against his. “Very tired.”

“Not that I was eavesdropping,” Varric said, “but if you want to put off going to Hightown, you’re welcome to stay with me for the night.”

Hawke tried to smile and couldn’t quite manage. “That sounds wonderful.”

 

When they reached the docks, Aveline came over to help Hawke and Alistair to their feet.

“I want you to know that I plan to stay,” she told them.

A crease formed between Hawke’s brows. “Are you sure it’ll be safe?”

“I think we’ll manage. The Knight Captain seems reasonable enough, and I have a feeling his word will count for something.”

Hawke nodded, brushing dirt off her robes. “When is Donnic due back from Ostwick?”

“Two days, maybe more. And I will never again complain about providing an official escort for whiny landowners, believe me.” She sighed. “The guard will suffer your absence, Alistair.”

“Nah. You do all the work. We just take part of the credit.”

Grinning, she put a hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “You’ve kept life interesting, I’ll give you that.”

“I doubt it’ll be boring when I’m gone.”

“You’re leaving?” Merrill said softly.

Hawke turned to see a pair of mournful eyes on her. "Merrill, we're apostates and known associates of the mage who just blew up the Chantry. You should leave, too."

She frowned. "I don't know. I'll think it over. I'll miss you, though."

"I'll miss you too." She swallowed hard, and when she spoke again, her voice was strained. "If you do stay, and Orana should happen to turn up, look after her for me, would you?" She didn't dare hope that anyone at the estate had survived, but you never know.

"Of course I will," Merrill assured her. "I'm sure she's fine."

Isabela slung an arm around Merrill's shoulders. "You know, we have a perfectly decent boat right here. We could set sail."

"What, become pirates?" Alistair chuckled. "Sure, nothing says ‘low profile’ like a bunch of wanted criminals on a stolen ship!"

Hawke smiled sadly. "He's right. It's best if we don't all stay together. We'd be too easy to find that way."

"Spoilsport," Bela sighed. She leaned in and kissed Hawke on the cheek. "Do take care of yourself, sweet thing. I'm sure we'll meet again."

"I hope we do," Hawke said.

 

Awaking alone in a vaguely familiar bed, Hawke rolled onto her back and tried to sort out where she was. Slowly bits of memory drifted out of the fog of sleep. This was Varric’s room. Alistair must be -

She heard his voice.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, no, your highness - I believe you,” Varric said. “I just didn’t realize things could get any weirder.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes.

Varric spoke again. “Are you gonna tell Hawke?”

Her stomach knotted.

“What good would come of that?” Alistair said. “What's done is done, and she’s got enough burdens as it is. Let me carry this one for her."

“Hey, don't worry about me. This is between you and her. Besides, I’m staying out of any and all magical shit from here on out.”

What weren’t they telling her? What did he mean, last time? She tried to sit up and razor-sharp pain clawed at her spine, laying her out. Teeth clenched, she breathed deep and waited for the wave to subside. What “magical shit” was Varric talking about? She recalled the way Alistair had tensed when she asked about Anders. It must have something to do with him. The thought made her ill. What else had he done?

Slowly, carefully, she eased herself out of bed. Giving her hair a cursory rake with her fingers, she went to the doorway. The two men were seated at the long table, and when Alistair saw her, his face brightened. "Hey, you’re up! How are you feeling?"

His warm smile softened her. He was a good man, and he loved her; of those two things, she was quite sure. Whatever he was keeping from her, she decided to let him keep it.

She gave a small smile. "I've been worse, right?"

 

They packed some food and water and that was it. Hawke didn’t want to go back to Hightown. If the estate still stood, it would be hard to leave it, and if it was destroyed, she didn’t want to see it. Whatever Alistair thought, he kept it to himself.

Varric promised to keep an eye out for Bodahn and Sandal, Orana, and Hugo. Alistair still held out some hope for them, and she admired that.

“Where will you go?” Varric asked.

She shrugged. "I hope we'll know it when we see it. When we do settle in somewhere, I'll write."

Varric rubbed the back of his neck. "I wish a lot of this had never happened. Maybe even most of it. But since it did, I'm glad you were with me for it all."

She put her hand on his shoulder. "Me too, Varric."

He turned to Alistair. "Try and keep her out of trouble, will you?"

Alistair smiled and took Hawke’s hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles. "You have my word.”

 

 


	30. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Alistair try to leave what's left of Kirkwall behind.

Hawke and Alistair decided to travel along the coast, rather than brave the mountains. Hawke worried that she was pushing Alistair harder than she should, but she desperately wanted to get away from Kirkwall. And of course, he never complained, Maker bless him.  
As the sun dipped low in the sky, she decided they had to stop for the night. He gathered some wood and she lit a fire, and they ate some of the fruit and dried meat they’d brought with them.  
“Wow,” Alistair quipped. “I haven’t had food this good since the Blight.”  
“Well, I think I can guarantee fewer darkspawn on this journey,” she said with a small smile.  
He rested a hand on her leg. “Are you alright?”  
She touched his hand. “I’m terrified of what will happen next.”  
“To us?”  
“To everyone else. I think Anders is going to get the war he wanted.” She rubbed her arms against a chill no fire could touch. “I just can’t believe he -” her voice cracked. She recalled Anders as she first knew him - the healer, the protector, the feeder of every stray cat in Kirkwall. She fell apart, shaking with the force of her tears. Alistair pulled her into his arms. He said nothing, just held her close until the storm had calmed.   
She remembered the shadows that formed under Anders’ eyes and never went away, the clothes that hung from his withering frame. Two memories collided - the first was Anders asleep in the tub in the guest room, mouth hanging open, snoring raucously.  
The second was Justice, threatening to kill a young, frightened girl they had just rescued from Ser Alric and his cronies.  
“Should we have seen this coming, Alistair? Could we have seen this coming?”  
“I don’t see how we could have,” he assured her, stroking her arm. “He was clearly very good at hiding things.”  
He’s not the only one, she thought, shuddering. She tried to chase it away. Alistair was not Anders. He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.  
“We knew something would happen,” she acknowledged. “He was getting worse. I thought…”   
“You thought he was dying,” Alistair finished. “I know. I did too.”  
The tears came again. “Even then, I didn’t know how to save him. I didn’t know what to do.”  
“I don’t think there was anything you could have done. I don’t think there’s anything anyone could have done. Not once he made Justice a part of himself.”  
She scooted a little closer to him. “I keep asking myself if I was wrong, letting him go, but if I hadn't, you -” she gripped his hand tightly, the words too painful to say. "But what if I made it worse? What if he does something else?"  
"He won't. I know he won't."  
"How can you sound so sure?"  
"What could he do? Really, what more could he possibly do? Whatever comes, I'm sure his part in it is over."  
She wanted to feel comforted by his surety. Perhaps someday, she would. "And what can I do, but hope you're right?" she sighed.  
“You did well, Gwenyth. You have to know that."  
She kissed him, and almost felt warm again. "As long as I have you to remind me," she murmured, stroking his cheek.   
“Always,” he whispered. “You’ll always have me.”  
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she clung to him. "Let's get some sleep."

By the middle of the next day, Hawke had begun to wish she’d taken Isabela’s offer. She imagined relaxing on the deck of the ship, watching the sunlight dance on the water. “Let’s stop for a bit,” she said, dropping her pack.  
“Come here,” Alistair said, holding out his arms.  
She shrugged. “I’m fine.”   
“Gwenyth,” he said sternly, taking her arm.  
Sighing, she put her arms around his neck and rested her face against his neck. He put one hand on the small of her back and she flinched.  
“I thought so,” he murmured, gingerly exploring her back with his fingers.  
“There,” she whispered when he found a spot that didn’t hurt to the touch. “Try there.”   
He massaged her back gently, diffusing the pain. “What else can we do?”  
Her laugh held only the barest trace of humor. “I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask Anders what went into that salve.”   
“You could let me carry your pack.”  
“I most certainly will not.” She pulled away and stretched. “It feels better, anyhow.” And it did. “Maybe we -” A movement on the road caught her attention. It almost looked like -   
She stepped around Alistair and squinted. “It couldn’t possibly -” But as the figure came closer, it was unmistakable. “Alistair,” she whispered, grabbing his arm, “look!”  
The mabari bounded up the road toward them, skidding to a stop at their feet and letting out a mighty bark.  
“Hugo!” Hawke dropped to her knees in the dust and threw her arms around the dog’s neck. He slathered her face with slobber before moving on to Alistair, who scratched him vigorously behind both ears while growling a lot of gibberish that the dog seemed to appreciate.  
“I can’t believe you found us!” Hawke wiped his drool and her own tears from her face.  
The warhound raised his brow, as if to say “What am I, stupid?”  
“What happened to the others, Hugo? Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana - are they alright?”  
He barked once, cheerfully, and she burst into tears. Alistair put his arm around her and squeezed, and she clung to him, weeping uncontrollably in relief.   
“Are you alright?” he asked, lifting her chin to look at her face.  
She smiled and wiped away the tears with one sleeve. “I am. I think I really am.” She felt better than she had in days. Better, to be honest, than she ever thought she’d feel again. She reached for her pack but Hugo snatched it away before she could get it. He trotted a few paces up the road, stopped, and looked back at them impatiently.  
“Looks like you’re outvoted, love,” Alistair said, grinning.  
She sighed, but she was smiling. “I suppose we can share the load."


	31. Epilogue

_ Dearest Varric, _

 

_ Rivain is lovely this time of year. Actually, Rivain has been lovely in general, and I’m having a hard time understanding why any of us stayed in the Free Marches. Sometimes I think about how different things could have been...but what good is that, right?  _

 

An errant curl, shot through with silver, worked its way free of her scarf, and she idly brushed it away.

 

_ We found a little seaside inn that suffered a devastating fire some years ago. We couldn’t find anyone who had a claim to it, so we fixed it up ourselves. As it turns out, there’s not a lot of travellers on the northern coast. See how I’m suffering without your business sense? _

 

“Gwenyth,” Alistair called, his voice soft and insistent. “Come to bed.”

She smiled. “Just a minute.”

 

_ If you ever feel like getting out of Kirkwall, there’s always room for you here. I’m sure you could use a vacation. And if you should need us, you know where to find us. _

 

_ Best wishes, _

_ Gwenyth _

 

Leaving the ink to dry, she stood, stretched, and crossed the room. 

Alistair smiled up at her sleepily, his head pillowed on one arm. “Not getting homesick, are you?”

She slipped under the covers and laid her head on his chest. “Don’t be silly. I am home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this eons ago, and I have no idea how it didn’t get posted.   
> Thank you for following these two this far. This story is over, but I’m not done with Gwenyth and Alistair Hawke just yet. If you’ve got the patience for it, stay tuned for the second volume in their tale.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, never done a prompt fill before. Probably missing some requisite paperwork, if so, my apologies. I spent too much time on this to let it waste away on my cloud - and by too much time, I mean two days.  
> Original prompt:  
> Alistair was exiled from Ferelden by the f!Cousland he loved, while f!Hawke is nursing her broken heart after Fenris left.  
> Would like to see them find comfort in each other, first still thinking of their previous lovers, but eventually realising that they want to be with each other.  
> Bonus for Fenris getting his jealousy on when Alistair/f!Hawke is established.  
> 


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